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y/tT 

THE COMEDY OF HUMAN LIFE 
By H. DE BALZAC 


SCENES FROM PARISIAN LIFE 


POOR RELATIONS 


COUSIN BETTE 


BALZAC’S NOVELS. 

Translated by Miss K. P. Wormeley. 

Already Published: 

PERE GORIOT. 

DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS. 

RISE AND PALL OP CESAR BIROTTEAU. 
euge'nie GRANDET. 

COUSIN PONS. 

THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 

THE TWO BROTHERS. 

THE ALKAHEST. 

MODESTE MIGNON. 

THE MAGIC SKIN (Peau de Chagrin). 
COUSIN BETTE. 

LOUIS LAMBERT. 

BUREAUCRACY (Les Employes). 
SERAPHITA. 

SONS OP THE SOIL. 

PAME AND SORROW. 


ROBERTS BROTHERS,. Publishers, 
BOSTON. 



Honore de Balsac 
Translated by 

Katharine Prescott Wonneley 


Cousin Bette 


Roberts Brothers 
Boston 


1B90 






CONTENTS, 


Page 

. I. Wheee does not Passion Lurk? 1 

II. Shameful Disclosures 7 

III. The Life of a Noble Woman 22 

IV. The Character of an old Maid; original, 

AND YET NOT AS UNCOMMON AS ONE MIGHT 

THINK 37 

V. The Young Maid and the Old One ... 52 

VI. In which Pretty Women are seen to Flut- 
ter BEFORE Libertines, just as Dupes put 
THEMSELVES IN THE WAY OF SWINDLERS ’. . 67 

VII. The Story of a Spider with too big a Fly 

IN Her Net 83 

VIII. Romance of the Father and that of the 

Daughter 97 

IX. In which Chance, Constructing a Romance, 
CARRIES Matters along so Smoothly that 

_ THE Smoothness cannot Last 113 

X. Social Compact between Easy Virtue and 
Jealous Celibacy — Signed, but not Re- 


corded 


127 


Contents, 


VI 


XI. 

XII. 


XIII. 

XIV. 


XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

iXX. 


XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 


Page 

Transformation of Cousin Bette . . . 140 

The Life and Opinions of Monsieur 

Crevel 150 

Last Attempt of Caliban over Ariel . 162 
In which the Tail-end of an ordinary 


Novel appears in the very Middle 

OF THIS TOO TRUE, RATHER ANACREONTIC, 

AND TERRIBLY MORAL HiSTORY . . . 177 

Assets of the firm Bette and Valerie 

— Marneffe Account _ . 193 

Assets of the firm Bette and Valerie 

— Fischer Account 206 

Assets of the Legitimate Wipe . . . 216 

Millions Redivd^us 229 

Scenes of High Feminine Comedy . . 240 
Two Brothers of the Great Confrater- 
nity OF Brotherhoods 255 

What it is that makes a Great Artist 268 
An Artist, Young and a Pole, what else 
COULD have been Expected ? . . . . 285 

The First Quarrel of Married Life . 302 
The Five Fathers of the Marneffe 

Church 316 

Summary of the History of the Favor- 

ITES 330 

A Summons with and without Costs . 345 

A Summons of Another Kind . . . . 355 

A Noble Courtesan . . . . ' . . . 370 

Conclusion of the Life and Opinions of 
Celestin Crevel 385 


Contents, vii 

Page 

XXX. A BRIEF Duel between Marechal Hulot, 
Comte de Forzheim, and His Excel- 
lency Monseigneur le Marechal 
C oTTiN, Prince de Wissembourg, Due 
d’Orfano, Minister of War .... 402 
XXXI. The Departure of the Prodigal Father 418 


XXXII. The Sword of Damocles 439 

XXXIII. Devils and Angels Harnessed to the 

SAME Car 456 

XXXIV. Vengeance in pursuit of Valerie , . 479 
XXXV. A Dinner-party of Lorettes .... 495 
XXXVI. The Cheap Parisian Paradise of 1840 . 507 
XXXVII. Fulfilment of Valerie’s Jesting Proph- 
ecies 522 

XXXVIII. Return of the Prodigal Father . . . 537 



COUSIN BETTE. 


CHAPTER I. 

WHERE DOES NOT PASSION LURK? 

About the middle of July, 1838, one of those hack- 
ney carriages lately put into circulation along the 
streets of Paris and called milords was making its way 
through the rue de TUniversite, carrying a fat man of 
medium height, dressed in the uniform of a captain of 
the National Guard. 

Among Parisians, who are thought to be so witty and 
wise, we may find some who fancy they are infinitely 
more attractive in uniform than in their ordinary 
clothes, and who attribute so depraved a taste to the 
fair sex that they imagine women are favorably im- 
pressed by a bear-skin cap and a military equipment. 

The countenance of this captain, who belonged to the 
second legion, wore an air of satisfaction with himself 
which heightened the brilliancy of his ruddy complexion 
and his somewhat puffy cheeks. A halo of content- 
ment, such as wealth acquired in business is apt to place 
around the head of a retired shopkeeper, made it easy 
to guess that he was one of the elect of Paris, an assis- 
tant-mayor of his arrondissement at the very least. As 
1 


2 


Cousin Bette, 


may be supposed, therefore, the ribbon of the Xegion 
of honor was not absent from his portly breast, which 
protruded with all the swagger of a Prussian officer. 
Sitting proudly erect in a corner of the milord^ this 
decorated being let his eyes rove among the pedestrians 
on the sidewalk, who, in fact, often come in for smiles 
which are really intended for beautiful absent faces. 

The milord drew up in that section of the street 
which lies between the rue de Bellechasse and the rue 
de Bourgogne, before the door of a large house lately 
built on part of the courtyard of an old mansion with a 
garden. The old building had been allowed to remain, 
and it stood in its primitive condition at the farther 
end of the courtyard, now reduced in space b}" half its 
width. \ 

Judging by the way the captain accepted the assist- 
ance of the coachman in getting out of the vehicle, an 
observer would have recognized a man over fifty 3'ears 
of age. There are certain ph^’sical actions whose undis- 
guised heaviness has the indiscretion of a certificate of 
baptism. The captain drew a yellow glove on his right 
hand, and, without making any inquiry at the porter’s 
lodge, walked towards the portico of the house with an 
air that plainl}^ said, “She is mine!” The Parisian 
porter has a knowledgeable eye ; he never stops a man 
wearing the ribbon of the Legion, dressed in blue, and 
ponderous of step ; he knows the signs of riches far too 
well. 

The ground-fioor apartment was occupied by Mon- 
sieur le Baron Hulot d’Ervy, pa^’master under the 
republic, formerly commissary-general of the army, and 
at the present time head of the most important depart- 


Cousin Bette, 


3 


ment in the ministiy of war, State councillor, grand 
officer of the Legion of honors etc. This Baron Hulot 
had lately taken the name of d’Ervy, the place of his 
birth, to distinguish him from his brother, the cele- 
brated General Hulot, colonel of the grenadiers of the 
Imperial Guard, whom the Emperor created Comte 
de Forzheim after the campaign of 1809. The elder 
brother, the count, taking charge of his younger brother, 
placed him with fatherly prudence in an office at the 
ministry of war, where, thanks to their double service, 
the 3 ’ounger, Baron Hulot, obtained and deserved the 
favor of the Emperor. In 1807 he was made com- 
missary-general of the armies of Spain. 

After ringing the bell, the bourgeois captain made 
desperate efforts to pull his coat into place ; for that 
garment was as much wrinkled before as behind, under 
the displacing action of a pear-shaped stomach. Ad- 
mitted as soon as a servant in livery had caught sight 
of him, this important and imposing personage followed 
the footman, who announced as he opened the door of a 
salon : — 

‘ ‘ Monsieur Crevel ! ” 

Hearing the name — admirably adapted to the ap- 
pearance of the man who bore it — a tall, blond 
woman, very yell preserved, seemed to undergo an 
electric shock and rose immediately. 

“Hortense, mj^ angel, go into the garden with your 
cousin Bette,” she said hurriedly to a young lady who 
was sitting by her, busy with some embroidery. 

Bowing graciously to the captain. Mademoiselle 
Hortense Hulot disappeared through a glass door, 
taking with her a lean old maid who seemed older 


4 


Cousin Bette. 


than the baroness, though she was in fact fivjB 3’ears 
younger. 

“ It must be something about j^our marriage,” whis- 
pered Bette to Hortense, without seeming at all 
offended by the manner in which Madame Hulot had 
sent them away, evidently considering her as of no 
account. The apparel of this cousin might at a pinch 
explain the want of ceremon}’. 

The old maid wore a merino dress the color of dried 
raisins, of a peculiar cut made with pipings which dated 
from the Restoration, a worked collar worth perhaps 
three francs, a straw bonnet of sewn fliaid trimmed with 
blue satin ribbon edged with straw, such as can be seen 
on the old-clothes women in the markets. A glance at 
her shoes, whose make betrayed a dealer of the lowest 
order, would have led a stranger to hesitate before 
bowing to cousin Bette as a member of the family ; in 
fact, her appearance was that of a dressmaker employed 
by the da}-. Nevertheless, the old maid made a friendly 
little bow to Monsieur Crevel before she left the room, 
to which that personage replied by a sign full of 
meaning. 

“ You will come to-morrow, will you not? ” he said. 

“Are you sure there will be no company?” asked 
Bette. 

“ My children and yourself, that will be all,” replied 
the visitor. 

“ Very good, then you may rely on seeing me,” she 
said as she left the room. 

“ Madame, I am here, at 3’our orders,” said the 
militia captain, again bowing to the baroness and cast- 
ing upon her a glance such as Tartuffe bestows on 


Cousin Bette, 


5 


Elmire when some provincial actor thinks it neces- 
sary to explain the part to a Poitiers or Grenoble 
audience. 

“ If you will follow me, monsieur, we shall be more 
at our ease in discussing matters here than in the 
salon,” said Madame Hulot, leading the way to an 
adjoining parlor which in the present arrangement of 
the house was used as a cardroom. 

This room was separated by a slight partition from a 
boudoir which had a window opening on the garden, 
and Madame Hulot left Monsieur Crevel alone for a 
few moments, thinking it wise to shut the window and 
the door of the boudoir lest anj* one should attempt to 
overhear them. She also took the precaution to shut the 
glass door of the large salon, smiling as she did so at 
her daughter and cousin who were settling themselves 
in an old kiosk at the further end of the garden. 
On returning she was careful to leave the door of the 
cardroom open, so that she might hear the opening of the 
salon door in case any one entered that room. As she 
went and came on these errands the baroness, conscious 
that she was under no e3'e for the moment, allowed her 
face to tell her thoughts ; and an}-’ one who had seen 
her then would have felt something akin to terror at 
the agitation she betraj’ed. But as she came through 
the door between the salon and the cardroom she 
veiled her face with that impenetrable reserve which all 
women, even the most candid, seem able to call up at 
will. 

During the time occupied by these preparations, 
which were, to say the least, singular, the militia cap- 
tain looked about him at the furniture of the room in 


6 


Cousin Bette. 


which he sat. As he noticed the silk curtains, formerly 
red, now faded into purple by the action of the sun, 
and worn along the edges of each fold ; at the carpet 
from which the colors had vanished ; at the defaced 
furniture with its tarnished gilding and silk coverings 
stained and spotted and worn into strips, expressions 
of contempt, self-satisfaction, and assurance succeeded 
each other artlessl}^ on the flat features of the parvenu 
merchant. He looked at himself in the mirror over the 
top of an old Empire clock, and was engaged in taking 
stock of his own person when the rustle of a silk dress 
announced the return of the baropess ; he at once re- 
covered position. 

After seating herself on a little sofa, which must 
have been very handsome as far back as 1809, the 
baroness pointed to a chair, the arms of which ended in 
heads of sphinxes lacquered in bronze, — the surface of 
which had peeled off in several places leaving the wood 
bare, — and made a sign to Crevel to be seated. 

“The precautions which you are taking, madarae, 
are naturally a delightful augury to a — ” 

“ — lover,” she said, interrupting him. 

“The word is feeble,” he replied, placing his right 
hand upon his heart, and rolling his eyes in a manner 
which would have made any woman laugh if she had 
seen their expression with a mind at ease. “ Lover! 
lover I say, rather, one bewitched ! ” 


Cousin Bette. 


1 


CHAPTER II. 

SHAMEFUL DISCLOSURES. 

“ Listen to me, Monsieur Crevel,” said the baroness, 
too serious to laugh ; “ you are fifty years old, — ten 
years younger than Monsieur Hulot, I admit ; but the 
follies of a woman of my age must find their justifica- 
tion in youth, beaut}’, celebrity, personal merit, or 
some one of those distinctions which dazzle her so 
much as to make her forget everything, even her own 
agel You may have an income of fifty thousand francs, 
but your years counterbalance your fortune ; and of all 
else that a woman requires you have nothing — ” 
“Except love,” exclaimed the captain, rising and 
coming towards her ; “ a love which — ” 

“ No, monsieur, obstinacy ! ” said the baroness, in- 
terrupting him to put an end to his absurdity. 

“ Yes, the obstinacy of love,” he replied, “ and 
something better still, rights — ” * 

“ Rights ! ” exclaimed Madame Hulot, dilating with 
contempt, defiance, and indignation. “ But,” she re- 
sumed, “if we continue in this tone there will be no 
end to it. I did not ask you to come here to talk of a 
matter which has already banished you from this house 
in spite of the connection between our families.” 

“ I believed you did — ” 


8 


Cousin Bette, 


“ You persist? ” she said. “ Can you not see, mon- 
sieur, by the light and easy manner with which I speak 
of love and lovers and all that is most perilous for a 
woman to discuss, that I am perfectly confident in 
mj’self and my own virtue ? I fear nothing ; not even 
misconception for being shut in with you here. Is that 
the conduct of a yielding woman ? You know perfectly 
well why I have sent for you.” 

“No, I do not, madame,” replied Crevel. He bit 
his lips, and resumed an attitude. 

“ Well, I will be brief, and shorten our mutual an- 
noyance,” said the baroness looking straight at him. 

Crevel made an ironical bow in which a tradesman 
would have recognized the air and graces of a quondam 
commercial traveller. 

“ Our son married your daughter — ” 

“ And if it were to do over again — ” said CreveL 

“ It would not be done at all,” she continued hastily. 
“I dare say not. But you have nothing to complain 
of. My son is not onty one of the first lawyers in 
Paris, but he is now a deputy, and his opening career 
in the Chamber is brilliant enough to lead one to expect 
that he will some day be in the ministr}^ Victorin 
has been twice appointed to draft important measures, 
and he could now be, if he chose, attorne3"-general of 
the Court of Appeals. Therefore when you give me 
to understand that you have a son-in-law without 
prospects — ” 

“ A son-in-law whom I am obliged to support,” re- 
torted Crevel, “ is even worse, madame. Of the five 
hundred thousand francs which Constituted m3' daugh- 
ter’s marriage portion, two hundred thousand have 


Cousin Bette. 


9 


already disappeared, the Lord knows where! — to pay 
your, son’s debts, to furnish his house gorgeously ; a 
house, by the bye, worth five hundred thousand francs, 
which brings him in a rental of barely fifteen thousand, 
because he chooses to occupy the best part of it. Be- 
sides, he still owes two hundred and forty thousand 
francs of the purchase money ; the rental he gets hardly 
covers the interest of the debt. This year I have been 
obliged to give my daughter something like twenty 
thousand francs to enable her to make both ends meet. 
And my son-in-law, who formerly earned thirty thou- 
sand francs by his profession, is now neglecting the 
Palais de Justice for the Chamber of Deputies.” 

“ All this. Monsieur Crevel, is quite beside our 
present business and leads away from it. But to end 
what we are saying, — if my son enters the ministry 
and obtains your appointment as officer of the Legion 
of honor and councillor of the municipality, you — the 
late perfumer — will have nothing to complain of.” 

“ Ha, there it is, madame ! I ’m a perfumer, a shop- 
keeper, a retail vender of almond-paste, eau de Bor- 
tiigal^ cephalic oil, and I ought to feel greatly honored 
by the marriage of my only daughter to the son of 
Monsieur le Baron Hulot d’Ervy ; my daughter will be 
a baroness — j^es, j^es, that’s regency, Louis XV., ceil- 
de-boeuf^ and all the rest of it ! I love Celestine as any 
man would love an only daughter. 1 love her so much 
that to avoid giving her a brother or a sister I have 
borne all the inconveniences of being a widower in 
Paris, — and in the vigor of my age, madame. But let 
me tell j’ou that in spite of this immoderate love for my 
daughter I shall not impair my property for the sake of 


Cousin Bette, 


la 

your son, whose expenditures are by no means clear to 
me, — to me, an old business man, madame/’ 

“ Monsieur, there is another business man at this 
very moment in the ministry of commerce, — Mon- 
sieur Popinot, formerly a druggist in the rue des 
Lombards.” 

“ And my very good friend,” said the ex-perfumer ; 
“ for I, Celestin Crevel, formerl}' head-clerk of Mon- 
sieur Cesar Birotteau, I bought the business of the 
said Birotteau, father-in-law of Popinot, who was a 
mere underling in that establishment. In fact, it is he 
who often reminds me of it ; for, to do him justice, he 
is not proud with men of good position and an income 
of sixty thousand francs.” 

‘‘ Well, monsieur, the ideas which you choose to 
qualify by the term ‘ regency ’ are certainly out of 
date at a time when men are judged by their personal 
merits ; and it was by those you judged in marrying 
your daughter to my son.” 

“You never knew how that marriage came about! ” 
cried Crevel. “Cursed life of a bachelor! if it had n’t 
been for my dissipations Celestine would be Vicomtesse 
Popinot at this moment ! ” 

“ Once more, do not let us recriminate about matters 
past and gone,” said the baroness gravely. “ I wish to 
speak to you on a subject about which 3’our strange con- 
duct gives me cause for complaint. My daughter Hor- 
tense might have married well ; the marriage depended 
wholly on you ; I believed you were actuated by gen- 
erous sentiments ; I thought 3’ou would have done 
justice to a woman who has no feeling in her heart 
except for her husband, and would have spared her the 


CouBin Bette, 


11 


necessity of receiving a man whose attentions com- 
promise her; in short, I fully expected you would 
endeavor, for the honor of the family to which you are 
allied, to further my daughter’s marriage with Monsieur 
Lebas, — and yet it is you, monsieur, who have pre- 
vented it ! ” 

“ Madame,” replied the ex-perfumer, “ I have acted 
as an honest man. I was asked if the two hundred 
thousand francs of Mademoiselle Hortense’s marriage 
portion would undoubtedly be paid. I answered ver- 
batim as follows : ‘ I cannot guarantee it ; my son- 
in-law, to whom the Hulots gave the same sum at the 
time of his marriage, had debts ; and I believe that if 
Monsieur Hulot d’Ervy died to-morrow, his widow 
would n’t have the wherewithal to buy bread.’ That ’s 
what I said, my lady.” 

“ Would you have said it,” demanded Madame Hulot, 
looking fixedly at Crevel, “ if 1 had forgotten my duty 
to my husband — ” 

“ I should have had no right to say it, dear Adeline,” 
cried this remarkable lover, cutting short her words ; “ in 
fact, you could then have taken the dot out of my 
purse.” 

Adding deeds to words the portly Crevel dropped on 
one knee and kissed Madame Hulot’s hand, mistaking 
her silent horror at his speech for hesitation. 

“Buy my daughter’s happiness at the price of — 
Rise, monsieur, or I ring for the servants.” 

The ex-perfumer rose with some difficulty. That 
very circumstance made him furious as he once more 
fell into position. Nearly every man cherishes an at- 
titude which sets off, as he thinks, the personal ad van- 


12 


CoUBin Bette, 


tages with which Nature has gifted him. In Crevel 
this attitude consisted in crossing his arms like Na- 
poleon, putting his head at a three-quarter profile, and 
casting his glance, as the painters show in their portraits 
of the Emperor, to the far horizon. 

“ The idea,” he cried, with well acted anger, “ of her 
keeping her silly faith in a libert — ” 

“ — in a husband, monsieur, who is worthy of it,” 
said Madame Hulot, interrupting Crevel before he could 
get out a word she did not choose to hear. 

‘‘ Now look here, madame; you have written to me 
to come here, j’ou ask the reasons of my conduct, j’ou 
drive me to extremities with j’our empress airs, 3’our 
disdain, 3’our — your — contempt. Anj^ one would 
think I was a negro ! I repeat what I said, and you 
may believe me, I have the right to make love to you 
— because — but no, I love 3^011 well enough to hold 
my tongue.” 

“ You can speak out, monsieur : I am all but fort3’- 
eight years old and not absurdly prudish : I can listen 
to what yon have to say.” 

“Well, will 3’ou give me your word as an honest 
woman — for 3^ou are, so much the worse for me, an 
honest woman — that you will never divulge m3^ name, 
and never say that I have told 3^ou this secret ? ” 

“ If that is 3"our condition, I will swear to tell no one, 
not even my husband, the name of the person from whom 
I have heard the enormities 3^ou are about to tell me.” 

' “ It concerns 3^011 and your husband — ” 

Madame Hulot turned pale. 

“ Ha ! if you still love that Hulot, I shall hurt 3’our 
feelings.. Would 3’ou rather I held my tongue? ” 


Cousin Bette, 


13 


“ Speak, monsieur ; since 3’ou wish to explain the 
extraordinary declarations ^^ou persist in making to me, 
and the annoyance j^ou cause a woman of my age whose 
sole desire is to marrj^ her daughter and then — die in 
peace,’^ 

“ There ! j’ou admit you are very unhappy.” 

“ I, monsieur?” 

“Yes, beautiful and noble creature,” cried Ci’evel; 
“ 3’ou have suffered too much.” 

“Monsieur, be silent and leave the room; or else 
speak in a proper maimer.” 

“ Do you know, madame, how and where it is that 
Monsieur Hulot and I are intimate ? — among our 
mistresses, madame.” 

“ Oh, monsieur — ” 

“ Among our mistresses,” repeated Crevel in a melo- 
dramatic tone, — abandoning his attitude to make a 
flourish with his right hand. 

“Well, what then, monsieur?” said the baroness 
quietly, to Crevel’s utter bewilderment. 

Seducers with petty motives never understand a 
noble soul. 

“ I, who am a widower for the last five j^ears,” re- 
sumed Crevel, in the tone of a man about to relate a 
historj^, “not wishing, in the interests of m3" daughter 
whom I idolize, to rcmany, and not willing to have 
questionable connections in m3" own house, — though 
indeed I had a ver3" pretty dame de comptoir, — I set up, 
as they sa3", in a house of her own, a little ^wing-girl, 
fifteen years of age and wonderfull3" prett3^ with whom, 
to tell you the truth, madame, I became desperatel3" in 
love. I sent for my own aunt, the sister of my mother ; 


14 


Cousin Bette, 


I brought her from my birthplace to live with this 
charming little creature and keep her as virtuous as 
possible under the — the — what shall I say ? — illicit 
circumstances. The little girl, whose musical vocation 
was evident, had masters, and lots of education was 
put into her, — in fact I was obliged to keep her occu- 
pied. Besides, I wished to be her father, her benefac- 
tor, and not to mince words, her lover all at once ; to 
kill two birds with one stone, to do a good action and 
keep a little friend. Well, I was happy for five years. 
The child had one of those voices which make the for- 
tune of a theatre ; I can’t describe it better than to 
say she was Duprez in petticoats. It cost me two 
thousand francs a j^ear solely to make a singer of her. 
She made me fanatico about music ; I took a box at 
the opera for her and another for my daughter, and I 
went alternately one night with Celestine and the next 
with Josepha — ” 

“ Josepha ! the famous singer? ” 

‘‘Yes, madame,” replied Crevel, puffing with self- 
conceit, “ the celebrated Josepha owes everything to 
me. At last, when the little thing had got to be twenty 
years old, and I felt she was attached to me for life, I 
wanted, out of the kindness of my heart, to give her a 
little amusement. So I introduced her to a pretty little 
actress named Jenn}" Cadine, whose career had a cer- 
tain likeness to her own. This actress had a protector, 
a man who had brought her up from childhood with 
great care. It was your husband, Baron Hulot — ” 

“ I know all that, monsieur,” said the baroness in a 
calm and equable tone of voice. 

“Ah, bah!” cried Crevel, more and more taken 


QouBin Bette, 


15 


aback. “ But do you know that your monster of a hus- 
band has protected Jenn}^ Cadine ever since she was 
thirteen years old?’' 

‘ ‘ W ell, monsieur, what next ? ” said Madame Hulot. 

“ As Jenny Cadine,” resumed the ex-perfumer, “ and 
Josepha were both twent}^ before the}" knew each other, 
the baron played the part of Louis XV. with Made- 
moiselle de Romans ; and you were twelve years younger 
than you are now.” 

“Monsieur, I have my own reasons for giving Mon- 
sieur Hulot his liberty.” 

“ That falsehood, madame, will doubtless wipe out 
your sins and open to you the gates of Paradise,” said 
Crevel with a shrewd glance that brought the color into 
her cheeks. “ Tell it, adored and saintly woman, to 
others, but not to an old fox like me who have had too 
many little suppers in company with your scoundrel of 
a husband not to know your true value. I have often, 
heard him when half-drunk burst forth about your per- 
fections and- reproach himself. Oh, I know you well ; 
you are an angel. Between you and a girl of twenty a 
libertine might hesitate — I do not.” 

‘ ‘ Monsieur ! 

“Well, I’ll say no more. But you oug,ht to be 
told, saint of a woman, that husbands when they are 
drunk tell a great many things about their wives to 
their mistresses, who shriek with laughter — ” 

Tears of shame rolled from Madame Hulot’s beautiful 
eyes and stopped the militia captain in the full tide of 
his remarks ; he even forgot his attitude. 

“ I resume,” he said presently. “We are cronies, 
the baron and I, through these girls. The baron, like 


16 


Cousin Bette, 


all vicious men, is extremely amiable, a downright good 
fellow. Oh, I liked him, the rogue ! He had wa3’s — 
but there, there, a truce to recollections ; we were like 
brothers. The scamp, with his regenc}^ ideas, tried to 
make me as bad as himself ; he preached Saint- 
Simonism in the matter of women, tried to give me the 
notions of a great lord, of an aristocrat d3’^ed in the 
wool ; but 3'ou see, I really loved m3^ little Jos^pha and 
would have married her if I had n’t been afraid of chil- 
dren to injure Cdestine’s interests. Between two old 
papas, friends — and we were such friends ! — don’t 
you think it was veij natural that we should think of 
marrying our respective children ? Three months after 
the marriage of my Celestine to 3^our son, Hulot, — I 
don’t know how I can utter the villain’s name, for he 
has deceived us both, madame ! — well, the wretch car- 
ried off m3^ little Josepha. He knew he was supplanted 
b3' a councillor of state, and also by an artist, in the 
good graces of Jenn3" Cadine (whose successes were 
really stupendous) ; and so he took awa3’’ from me m3" 
poor little mistress, a love of a woman, — but 3'ou have 
often seen her at the Italian opera, where he got 
her a situation on the strength of his name. Your 
husband -cis not as good a manager as I, who keep 
accounts and rule m3" expenses as regular as a sheet 
of music-paper. Jenn3" Cadine made a hole in his 
means, for she cost him ver3" nearly thirty thousand 
francs a year, but now, — and 3"ou had better know 
it, — he is ruining himself for Josepha. Josepha, ma- 
dame, is a Jewess ; her name is Mirah, the anagram of 
Hiram, a Hebrew sign by which she can, if necessary, 
be identified .; for I made inquiries and found she was 


Cousin Bette. 


17 


the natural daughter of a rich German Jew, .a banker, 
who had abandoned her. The theatre, and above all, 
the advice and instruction of Jenny Cadine, Madame 
Schontz, Malaga, Carabine, and others, have taught 
her how to make the most of old men ; and the little 
thing whom I had been keeping in a decent and not 
costly fashion has now developed the instinct of the 
early Jews for gew-gaws and jewels and the golden calf. 
The celebrated singer, eager after money, wants to 
be rich, and ver}" rich. But she is extremely careful 
not to lose a penn}- of what is spent on her. She began 
b}^ trj'ing her hand on Monsieur Hulot, and she plucked 
him, oh, did n’t she pluck him ! picked him clean, as 
you might say. The luckless fellow has tried to make 
head against a Keller and the Marquis d’Esgi’ignon, 
both madly in love with Josepha, not to speak of all 
the unknown idolators ; but now he is going to find 
himself cut out and sent adrift by that little duke so 
powerfully rich who patronizes art — what ’s his name ? 
— a dwarf — ah ! the Duke d’Herouville. The little 
man is determined to have Josepha all to himself; 
ever3'body is talking of it, but your husband has not yet 
found it out ; the lover, like the husband, is the last man 
to get at the facts. Now don’t 3'ou see my rights ? Your 
husband, my dear lady, has deprived me of my Jiappi- 
ness, of the only happiness I have had since my wif&ower- 
hood. Yes, if I had n’t had the misfortune to meet that 
old driveller, I should still have Josepha ; for, don’t 3’ou 
see, I should never have put her on the stage ; she ’d 
have remained in obscurit3^, virtuous after a fashion, and 
mine only. Oh, if you had seen her eight years ago ! — 
slender and lithe, with the golden skin, as they say, of 

2 


18 


Cousin Bette. 


an Andalusian, black hair shining like satin, an eye 
that darted lightning through its brown lashes ; the 
elegance of a duchess in her gestures, the modesty of a 
poor girl, the simplicity of an honest one, and the grace 
of a 3^oung doe ! It is 3’our husband’s fault that all 
this prettiness, this puritj^, has turned into a regular 
wolf-trap, a deco}^, a snare, — the queen of impuritj", 
for that’s what they call her.” 

The ex-perfumer actually wiped his eyes in which 
were a few tears. The sincerity of his grief roused 
Madame Hulot from the re very into which she had 
fallen. 

“ I ask you, madame, how is it possible at fiftj’-two 
3’ears of age to get another such treasure? At that 
time of life love costs thirty thousand francs a year, — I 
know the sum through 3^our husband, — but I love Ce- 
lestine too well to ruin her. When I saw you at the 
first evening party to which 3^ou invited us, I could 
not comprehend how that scoundrel of a Hulot could 
take up with a Jenny Cadine. You are like an em- 
press ; in my e^^es you are only thirty’ ; you seem to 
me young ; j^ou are beautiful. On m3" word of honor, 
I was smitten that very first day, and I said to myself: 
‘If I didn’t have my little Josepha, and that old 
Hulot abandons his wife, she would fit me like a glove’ 

— Ah, beg pardon ; the shop does sometimes get the 
better of me ! and that is one reason why I have 
never aspired to be a legislator. So, when I found 
how basely the baron had deceived me, — for between 
such old fellows our mistresses should have been sacred, 

— I swore that I would take his wife awa3’^ from him. 
That ’s justice. The baron can’t complain ; I can act 


Comin Bette, 


19 


with impunit3\ You turned me out of 3’our house like 
a mangy cur at the first words I uttered about the state 
of my heart. That redoubled my love, my obstinacy if 
you like it better, and j^ou will certainly be mine.” 

“How?” 

“ I don’t know how ; but so it will be. Let me tell 
3*ou, madame, that an old fool of a perfumer — a retired 
perfumer — who has only one idea in his head is much 
stronger than a clever man who has a thousand. I ’m 
crazy about 3^ou ; and, besides, 3^ou are my revenge, — 
it is just as if I had two loves ! You see I speak openly, 
like a determined man, as I am. You may sa3^ if 3’ou 
please, ‘ I will never be 3^ours ! ’ I answer, C00II3', that I 
am playing above-board, and 3’ou will be mine in a 
given time. You may be fifty years old before that 
time comes, but some day 3'ou will be my mistress. I 
expect anything and everything through 3’our hus- 
band’s — ” 

Madame Hulot cast such an agonized look of terror 
on the vulgar computer of her fate that he stopped 
short, thinking she might lose her senses. 

“ You forced me to say this ; 3'ou have insulted me 
with 3"our contempt ; 3"ou have defied me, and now I 
have spoken out,” he said, feeling it necessar3^ to defend 
the brutalit3' of his last words. ^ 

“Oh, m3^ daughter, m3" daughter!” cried the poor 
woman, in a feeble voice. 

“ Ah, I know no pity ! ” resumed Crevel. “ The day 
when Josepha was taken from me I was like a tigress 
deprived of her cubs, — I was like 3"ou, as 3"Ou are at 
this moment. Your daughter ! why, she is the means 
by which I shall win 3"Ou ! You can’t marry her without 


20 


Cousin Bette. 


my help ! Mademoiselle Hortense is veiy handsome, 
but she must have a dot.” 

“ Alas ! yes,” said the baroness, wiping her ej’es. 

“ Well, then, go and ask your baron for ten thousand 
francs a 3^ear,” said Crevel, resuming his attitude. 

He waited a moment like a singer who counts a bar. 

“If he had them he would give them to some girl 
who will replace Jos^pha,” he said, taking up the score. 
“ Can he be stopped in his present career? No, he is 
too fond of women, — there ought to be a medium in all 
things, as our present king says. Besides, vanity counts 
for something. He is a handsome man, and he would 
take the bed from under 3"Ou to serve his pleasures. 
Whj', everything is going to pieces here already ! Since 
I have known 3W, 3’ou have never been able to renew 
the furniture of your salon. The slits in these stuffs 
actually vomit the word ‘ need3%’ What prospective 
son-in-law would n’t be scared by such ill-concealed 
proofs of the worst of all poverty, — that of decayed 
gentlefolks? I have been a shopkeeper, and I know. 
There ’s nothing like the shop-keeping e3"e for seeing 
real riches and detecting counterfeits. You have n’t a 
penny!” he added in a low voice; “it shows every- 
where, even in 3^our footman’s coat. Do 3"ou wish me 
to reveal certain awful -secrets which are hidden from 
you ? ” 

“Monsieur,” said Madame Hulot, whose handker- 
chief was wet with tears, “ say no more.” 

“ Well, m3^ son-in-law gives his father money ; and 
that is what I started to tell you in the beginning of our 
conversation about 3^our sou. But I am looking after 
Celestine’s interests ; you ma3" be easy bn that score.” 


Oousin Bette. 


21 


“ Oh, if I could only marry my daughter and die ! 
said the miserable woman, losing her self-command. 

“ Well, I offer you the means,” said Crevel. 

Madame Hulot looked at him with a gleam of hope, 
which changed the expression of her face so rapidly 
that the sight Of it alone ought to have moved Crevel 
to compunction, and forced him to abandon his prepos- 
terous pursuit. 


22 


Cousin Bette* 


CHAPTER III. 

THE LIFE OF A NOBLE WOMAN. 

“ You will be beautiful ten years hence,” said Crevel, 
resuming his position. “ Accept me, and Mademoiselle 
Hortense shall marry at once. Hulot gives me the 
right, as I have just told you, to drive a straight bar- 
gain ; he ’ll not object. For the last three 3’ears I have 
been saving money ; my little distractions have all been 
economical. I have three hundred thousand francs laid 
by, outside of my real property ; the}^ are yours — ” 
“Leave my house, monsieur, and never let me see 
3’ou again!” exclaimed Madame Hulot. “If 3*ou had 
not compelled me to ask the meaning of 3'our base con- 
duct in the matter of m3’ daughter’s proposed marriage 
— yes, base,” she repeated, in repl3’ to Crevel’s gesture ; 
“why do you allow such animosities to injure a poor 
girl, a beautiful, innocent creature? — if it were not 
for this cruel necessity which wrings m3’ mother’s-heart 
3^ou should never have spoken to me again ; you should 
never have re-entered these doors. Thirty-two years 
of wifel3" honor and loyalty are not destro3’ed by the 
attacks of a Monsieur Crevel — ” 

“Ex-perfumer, successor to Cesar Birotteau at the 
‘ Queen of Roses,’ rue Saint-Honor^,” said Crevel, 
jokingly; “formerly assistant-mayor, captain of the 


CouBin Bette, 


23 


National Guard, chevalier of the Legion of honor, pre- 
cisely like my predecessor.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the baroness, “ if my husband, 
after twenty years of constancy, has grown weary of 
his wife, it concerns me, and only me ; and observe, 
monsieur, that he has carefully concealed his infideli- 
ties, for I was not aware that he had succeeded you in 
the heart of Mademoiselle Josepha.” 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed Crevel, “ only b}^ dint of money, 
madame ; that little nightingale has cost him over a 
hundred thousand francs in the last two years. Ha ! ha ! 
there ’s more behind it all, if you did but know it.” 

“ Enough, Monsieur Crevel,. let me hear no more! 
I shall not renounce, for 3’our sake, the happiness a 
mother feels in folding her children to her heart with- 
out remorse of conscience ; in knowing that her family 
respect and love her. I shall yield my soul to God 
without a stain.” 

“Amen!” said Crevel, with the devilish bitterness 
that comes out upon the faces of men when they are 
checked anew in such attempts. “ You don’t yet know 
what poverty is in its last stages, — shame, dishonor. 
I have done my best to enlighten 3’ou. I wished to save 
both 3"ou and 3"our daughter. Well, 3^ou can spell out 
the modern parable of the prodigal father to its last 
letter if 3’ou like. — But your tears and 3^our pride do 
touch me,” he added, sitting down again. “ It is dread- 
ful to see the woman we love in affliction. All that I 
can promise 3'ou, dear Adeline, is to do nothing against 
3'our interests, nor against your husband ; but, remem- 
ber, you must never send an3' one to me for information. 
That ’s all I have to say.” 


24 


Cousin Bette. 


“ What am I to do?” exclaimed Madame Hulot. 

Till then Madame Hulot had bravely borne the triple 
torture this conversation had inflicted on her heart ; 
she suffered as a woman, as a mother, as a wife. In 
fact, so long as her son’s father-in-law had been over- 
bearing and aggressive, she felt strengthened by the re- 
sistance she made to the brutalit}’ of the ex-shopkeeper ; 
but the good-natured kindliness which he now showed 
in the midst of his exasperation as a rebuffed lover, as a 
humiliated national guard, relaxed the fibres which were 
strung to their utmost pitch. She wrung her hands and 
burst into tears, falling into a state of such abject de- 
pression that she allowed Crevel, now on his knees, to 
kiss her hands. 

“ M}^ God! what will become of me!” she said, 
wiping her tears. “ Can a mother coldly see a daugh- 
ter perish before her very e^’es ? What will be the fate 
of so glorious a creature, guarded by her chaste life be- 
side her mother as much as by the innate purity- of her 
nature? There are days when she wanders alone in the 
garden, sad and disturbed without knowing why ; I see 
the tears in her eyes — ” 

“ She is twenty-one years old,” said Crevel. 

“ Must I put her into a convent? ” exclaimed the bar- 
oness. “At such crises religion is powerless against 
nature, and girls who are piously brought up have been 
known to go insane. Rise, monsieur ; do j^ou not see 
that all is at an end between us? that I feel a horror 
of you? that you have just cast down and destroyed a 
mother’s last hope? — ” 

“ What if I raise it again ? ” he said. 

Madame Hulot looked at Crevel with a frenzied ex- 


Cousin Bette, 


25 


pression that touched him ; but he drove the pity from 
his heart, recollecting her words, “I feel a horror for 
5’ou.” Virtue is alwa3’s a little too much of one thing ; 
it does not see the shades and the variations of temper- 
ament among which it might tack and steer out of a 
false position. 

“ In these da3’s there is no manning a girl as hand- 
some as Mademoiselle Hortense without a dowry,” said 
Crevel, resuming his starched manner. “ Your daugh- 
ter is one of those beauties who frighten men ; she is 
like a thorough-bred horse, which requires such costly 
care that bu3’ers are scarce. How can a man go a-foot 
with such a woman on his arm? Ever3’bod3" w'ould 
stare at him, and follow him, and want his wife. That 
sort of thing is dreadful to a man who does n’t care to 
fight a host of lovers ; for, after all, onl3" one of them 
can be killed. In the situation in which you find your- 
self, madame, there are but three wa3^s in which you 
can marry 3’our daughter : either b3' m3" help, — and that 
3’ou don’t choose to take, — or to some old man of sixt3", 
veiT rich, without children, who wants an heir, — diffi- 
cult to find, but 3'ou may meet with him ; old men are 
apt to take a Josepha or a Jenn3" Cadine, and some- 
times the3" do the same thing legitimatel3’. If I did n’t 
have my Ctdestine and our two grandchildren to look 
after, I ’d marry Hortense m3"self. That ’s your second 
chance ; the third is the easiest.” 

Madame Hulot raised her head and looked eagerly at 
the ex-perfumer. 

‘ ‘ Paris is a place where all men of talent and energ3", 
who grow like mushrooms in the soil of France, turn up 
sooner or later ; it swarms with homeless, half-starved 


26 


Cousin Bette, 


geniuses, pluck}" fellows, capable of anything, even of 
making their fortune. Well, such men, — your humble 
servant was one of them in his day, and knew many 
others. What was du Tibet, what was Popinot twenty 
years ago? They were paddling round that little shop 
of Papa Birotteau’s, without any other capital than the 
ambition to get on, which in my opinion is the best 
capital of all. Money capital can be spent and wasted, 
but moral capital can’t. Look at me ; what did I have ? 
The wish to succeed and the courage to do so. Du 
Tibet ranks to-day with the highest people in the land. 
Little Popinot, the richest druggist in the rue des Lom- 
bards, became a deputy, and is now a minister. Well, 
as I was saying, one of these free lances, stock-broker, 
artist, author, is the only kind of man in Paris who is 
willing to marry a handsome girl without a penny ; they 
are all courageous fellows. Anselme Popinot married 
Mademoiselle Birotteau without expecting a farthing of 
dowry. Such men are cracked ; they believe in love, 
just as they believe in their own faculties and their own 
success. Find one of them and get him in love with 
your daughter, and he ’ll marry her without a thought 
of the future. You must admit that, enemy as you 
think me, I am not wanting in generosity ; for this 
advice is against my own interests.” 

“ Ah, Monsieur Crevel, if you would only be my friend, 
and give up those ridiculous ideas — ” 

“Ridiculous? Madame, do not undervalue yourself 
in that way. 1 love you, and some day you will cer- 
tainly be mine. I intend to say to Hulot, ‘ You took 
Josepha away fi’om me ; I have got your wife.’ It is 
the old law of retaliation. I shall pursue that purpose. 


Cousin Bette, 


27 


unless 5^011 become extremely ugly. I shall succeed ; 
and I ’ll tell you why,” he added, resuming his atti- 
tude and gazing fixedlj" at Madame Hulot. Then after 
a pause he continued : — 

“ You will not find either a rich old man or a 3’oung 
lover for 3’our daughter, because 3^011 love her too well to 
deliver her over to the mercies of an old libertine, and 
because 3’ou will never bring 3’ourself — you, Baronne 
Hulot, sister-in-law of the commander of the grenadiers 
of the Old Guard — to take a man of talent wherever 
3'ou can find him. Such a man may be a mere workman, 
like man3’ a millionnaire to-da3" who was a mechanic ten 
3'ears ago, a foreman, an overseer in a manu facto ly. 
And so, seeing that your daughter, hopeless of mar- 
riage, is likel3" to do something that will disgrace her, 
3’ou will say to yourself, ‘ Better that I be dishonored ; 
and if Monsieur Crevel will keep the secret, I will earn 
m3’ daughter’s dowr3’ — two hundred thousand francs — 
b3’ ten years’ attachment to that ex-perfumer.’ I anno3^ 
you; and what I sa3' is profoundl3’ immoral, isn’t it? 
But if 3’ou were eaten up b3’ an irresistible passion, 3’ou 
would find as man3" reasons to 3deld as a woman who 
is really in love. Well, you ’ll see ; 3’our daughter’s fu- 
ture will put these capitulations of conscience into your 
mind.” 

“ Hortense has an uncle — ” 

“ Who? old Fischer? His affairs are in a bad way ; 
and that again is the fault of Baron Hulot, whose rake 
gets into ever3’ strong-box within his reach — ’’ 

“ I mean Comte Hulot.” 

“Oh, 3’our husband, madame, has alread3" made mince- 
meat of his brother’s savings ; the3^ have gone to furnish 


28 


Cousin Bette. 


his siren’s house. Come, now, do 3'ou mean to let me 
ga without a word of hope ? ” 

“ Adieu, monsieur. You will soon get over a passion 
for a woman of my age, and learn Christian principles. 
God protect the sorrowful ! ” 

The baroness rose to compel the captain to retire, 
forcing him thus into the large salon. 

“ Is it proper that the beautiful Madame Hulot should 
live in such a wretchedly furnished place?” he said, 
looking round him, and pointing to an old lamp, a 
chandelier with the gilding defaced, the white seams of 
the carpet, in short, to the tatters of opulence, which 
made the fine old salon in white, red, and gold a skele- 
ton reminder of imperial glory. 

“ Virtue shines within it, monsieur. I have no de- 
sire to obtain a gorgeous home by making the beauty 
which 3"ou sa}' is mine a wolf-trap, the deco}' of a Jewess 
worshipping the golden calf ! ” 

The captain bit bis lips as he recognized the words he 
had lately used to condemn the grasping avarice of 
Josepha. 

“ And for whose sake are 3"ou so perseveringly 
faithful?” he demanded. this time the baroness 
had led him to the outer door of the salon. “ For a 
libertine ! ” he added, with the sneer of a virtuous 
millionnaire. 

“If he were, monsieur, my constancy would have 
some merit, that is all.” 

She left the captain with a bow such as a woman 
gives to a man she is well rid of, and turned away too 
quickly to see him strike his attitude for the last time. 
She opened all the doors which she had closed and did 


Cousin Bette, 


29 


not notice the menacing gesture with which Crevel left 
the room. She walked proudl}^, nobly, like a mart}^ 
in the Coliseum ; but her strength was gone and, as 
she reached her boudoir, she let herself fall upon the 
sofa like a woman on the verge of exhaustion, though 
her eyes were fixed on the ruined kiosk where Hortense 
was chattering with her cousin Bette. 

From the first days of her marriage to the present 
time Madame Hulot had loved her husband just as 
Josephine had finally loved Napoleon, — with an admir- 
ing love, a maternal love, a servile love. Though she 
was ignorant of the details Crevel had just given her, she 
nevertheless knew perfectly well that for the last twenty 
3'ears Baron Hulot was constantly unfaithful to her; 
but she had drawn a leaden veil over her ej’es and wept 
in silence ; never a word of reproach escaped her. In 
return for this angelic sweetness she had won the vener- 
ation of her husband, who regarded her with a species 
of religious worship. The afi*ection of a wife for her 
husband, the respect in which she holds him, are con- 
tagious in a family. Hortense thought her father a 
model of conjugal love. As for Hulot the sou, brought 
up in admiration of the baron, who was publicly looked 
upon as one of the giants who seconded Napoleon, he 
was well aware that he owed his position to the name, 
the station, and the reputation of his father ; moreover, 
still infiuenced by the impressions of his childhood, he 
held his father in awe. Had he suspected the irregu- 
larities which Crevel now revealed he was too respectful 
to complain of them ; he might even have excused them 
with such reasons as men give for these misdemeanors, 
seen from their own point of view. 


30 


Cousin Bette. 


It now becomes necessary to explain the extraordinary 
devotion of this beautiful and noble woman ; and we 
must give the history of her life in a few words. * 

From a village situated on the extreme confines of 
Lorraine, at the foot of the Vosges mountains, three 
brothers of the name of Fischer, common laborers, 
drawn under the republican conscription, started for 
the Army of the Ehine. 

In 1799 the second of these brothers, Andre, wid- 
ower and father of Madame Hulot, left his daughter 
to the care of his elder brother, Pierre Fischer, dis- 
abled from active service by wounds received in 1797, 
and made a few limited trips on the military transports, 
an employment which he owed to the influence of the 
paymaster of the forces, Baron Hulot d’Ervy. By a 
very natural accident, Hulot, when he came to Stras- 
burg, saw the Fischer family.# Adeline’s father and his 
3’ounger brother were by that time purvej’ors of forage 
in Alsace. 

Adeline, then sixteen years of age, might be com- 
pared with the famous Madame du Bany, like herself a 
daughter of Lorraine. She was one of those perfect, 
overwhelming beauties, of the tj’pe of Madame Tallien, 
whom Nature manufactures with especial care, bestowing 
upon them her choicest gifts, — distinction, nobility of 
bearing, grace, delicac}’, elegance, a rare skin, and a 
complexion compounded on that mysterious palette 
where chance has mixed the colors. Beautiful w^omen 
of this type resemble each other. Bianca Capello, 
whose portrait is Bronzino’s masterpiece, the Venus of 
Jean Goujon, the original of which was the famous 
Diane de Poitiers, Signora Olympia, whose picture is 


Cousin Bette, 


31 


in the Doria galler}^ in short, Ninon, Madame du 
Bariy, Madame Tallien, Mademoiselle Georges, Mad- 
ame Recamier, — all such women, who remain beautiful 
in spite of years, passions, or lives of excessive dissipa- 
tion, bear a strong likeness to each other in their fig- 
ures, their structure, and the points of their beauty ^ 
which leads to a belief that in the ocean of generative 
forces there fiows an aphrodisiac current whence all 
these goddesses emerge, daughters of the same salt' 
wave. 

Adeline Fischer, one of the loveliest of the divine 
tribe, could boast the glorious characteristics, the ser- 
pentine lines, the blue-veined tissues of these queen- 
born women. Her golden hair, the like of which our 
Mother Eve obtained from the hand of God, her form, 
worth}^ of an empress with its air of grandeur, the au- 
gust outlines of her noble profile, combined with the 
modesty of a village girl, arrested the attention of men 
who remained rapt in admiration before her like ama- 
teurs in presence of a Raphael. Meeting her thus, 
Baron Hulot made Mademoiselle Adeline Fischer his 
wife by civil marriage, to the great astonishment of 
all the other Fischers, who had been brought up to 
hold their superiors in reverence. 

The eldest, Pierre Fischer, a soldier of 1792, severely 
wounded in the attack on Wissembourg, worshipped 
Napoleon and everything relating to the grand army. 
Andre and Johann spoke with great respect of the 
paymaster-general, Hulot, a favorite of the Emperor 
and one, moreover, to whom they owed their advance- 
ment ; for the baron, struck with their honest}" and in- 
telligence, had promoted them from the victualling-trains 


Cousin Bette, 


32 

of the arm}^ and put them at the head of a commissariat 
department. Here the Fischer brothers did good ser- 
vice during the campaign of 1804. When peace was 
proclaimed, Hulot got them a position of purve^^ors of 
forage in Alsace, without knowing that he himself 
would be sent to Strasburg some months later, to pre- 
pare for the campaign of 1806. 

To a 3 ’oung peasant-girl such a marriage was like an 
Assumption. The beautiful Adeline passed, without 
an}’ transition period, from the mud of her native 
village to the paradise of the imperial court. It was 
about this time that Monsieur Hulot, one of the most 
faithful, honest, and active of his corps, was made 
a baron, placed near the Emperor, and appointed to the 
Imperial Guard. The beautiful village girl, out of love 
for her husband, whom she idolized, had the courage to 
have herself educated. The pa 3 ’master-general was, as 
a man, a replica of Adeline as a woman. He belonged 
to the elect few of handsome men. Tall, well-made, 
fair, with blue e 3 'es of a sparkling fire and pla}’ that w’as 
irresistible, and an elegant figure, he was observable 
even among the d’ Orsa^’s, the Forbins, the Ouvrards, 
in short, the battalion of the fine men of the empire. 
A conqueror of women, and imbued with the ideas of 
the Directory concerning them, his career of gallantry 
was arrested for a considerable time by his conjugal 
attachment. 

To Adeline the baron was, from the start, a species 
of divinity who could do no wrong ; she owed every- 
thing to him, — fortune, mansion, carriage, all the luxury 
of those luxurious days ; happiness, for she was publicly 
adored ; a title, that of baroness ; and celebrity, for she 


Cousin Bette. 


33 


became known as “the beautiful Madame Hulot;” 
she even had the honor of declining the homage of the 
Emperor, who presented her with a riviere of diamonds, 
and continued to take notice of her, saying from time 
to time, “ That beautiful Madame Hulot, is she still 
virtuous? ” — as if he were ready to revenge himself on 
an}' man who triumphed where he had failed. 

It does not, therefore, require much intelligence to 
perceive in a simple, candid, beautiful soul like that of 
Madame Hulot the springs of the fanaticism which she 
mingled with her love. Assuring herself perpetually 
that her husband could be guilt}' of no wrong toward 
her, she became in her inward being the humble, blind, 
devoted servant of her creator. It is to be remarked, 
however, that she was gifted with sound good sense ; 
that good common -sense of the people, which made her 
education a solid matter. In society she spoke little, 
said no evil of any one, and never sought to shine ; she 
reflected about everything and listened intelligently, 
forming herself on the model of the worthiest and best 
bred women. 

In 1815 Hulot followed the example of an intimate 
friend, the Prince de Wissembourg, and was one of 
those who organized the impromptu army whose defeat 
at Waterloo ended the Napoleonic era. In 1816 the 
baron became a thorn in the side of the Feltre ministry, 
and was only reinstated in the commissariat depart- 
ment in 1823, when the government wanted his ser- 
vices for the war in Spain. In 1830, at the time w'hen 
Louis Philippe levied a species of conscription among 
the former Napoleonic troops, he became quartermaster- 
general. After the accession of the younger branch, 

3 


34 


Cousin Bette. 


of which he was an able supporter, he remained an in- 
dispensable officer of the ministry of war. He had, 
moreover, obtained his marshal’s-baton, so that the 
king could do no more for him, short of making him 
minister or peer of France. 

Deprived of his usual occupations from 1818 to 1823, 
Baron Hulot took to active service around women. 
Madame Hulot dated her Hector’s first infidelities to 
the period of the empire’s grand finale. Up to that 
time — that is, for twelve j’ears — she had been undispu- 
ted donna assoluta of their home. She still en- 

joyed the inveterate habitual affection which husbands 
always bestow on wives who resign themselves to the role 
of gentle and virtuous companions ; she knew that no 
rival could hold her own for two hours against a single 
word of complaint on her part; but she closed her 
eyes, stopped her ears, and tried to ignore her hus- 
band’s conduct outside of his own home. She treated 
her Hector at last very much as a mother treats a 
spoiled child. Three 3'ears before the conversation 
just related, Hortense had recognized her father in 
a proscenium box at the Varietes in company’ with 
Jenny Cadine, and exclaimed : See, there ’s papa ! ” 
You are mistaken, my darling,” said her mother ; “ he 
is with the marshal.” The baroness had seen her rival 
plainly enough, but instead of undergoing a pang at the 
sight of her beauty, she said to herself, '‘That scamp 
of a Hector must be happy.” Nevertheless she did 
suffer, and gave way secretly at times to frightful 
anger ; but as soon as Hector entered her presence she 
remembered only her twelve years of unalloyed happi- 
ness, and lost all power to articulate complaints. She 


Cousin Bette. 


35 


would have liked him to make her his confidante ; but 
she never dared, out of respect for his character, to let 
him know that she was aware of his follies. Such ex- 
cess of delicacy is onl}’ met with among the beauteous 
daughters of the people, who know how to bear a blow 
without returning it ; in their veins the blood of the 
martyrs still lingers. Well-born women, the equals of 
their husbands, feel the need of irritating them, of 
marking their tolerance of wrong, just as we mark a 
score at billiards, by cutting words spoken in a spirit 
of diabolical vengeance, intended to assert either their 
superiorit}" or their right to go and do likewise. 

The baroness had a devoted admirer in her brother- 
in-law, Lieutenant-general Hulot, the venerable com- 
mander of the foot grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, to 
whom a marshal’s-baton had been granted in his latter 
years. The old man, after commanding from 1830 to 
1834 the military division which comprised the Breton 
departments, the scene of his exploits in 1799 and 1800, 
had come to end his days in Paris near his brother, for 
whom he never ceased to feel the aflfection of a father. 
The heart of the old soldier sympathized with that of 
his sister-in-law ; he admired her as the noblest, saint- 
liest of her sex. He never married, because he longed 
for a second Adeline, seeking her vainlj" in many lands 
and through many campaigns. The desire not to fall 
in the estimation of the old hero, the man without re- 
proach or stain, of whom Napoleon had said, “That 
fine Hulot is the most obstinate of republicans, but he 
will never betray me,” would of itself have led Adeline 
to endure even greater sufferings than those which 
she underwent. But the old general, now sevent 3 *-two 


36 


Cousin Bette, 


years of age, broken by thirty campaigns, wounded 
for the twenty-seventh time at Waterloo, though he 
was the object of Adeline’s admiration was, neverthe- 
less, no protection to her. The poor count, among 
other infirmities, could hear nothing except through a 
trumpet. 

As long as Baron Hulot d’Ervy remained young and 
handsome, his love affairs did little harm to his fortune ; 
but at fifty 3'ears of age, the graces must be reckoned 
with. At that age love in elderl}^ men changes to vice, 
mingled, moreover, with insensate vanity. About this 
period of his life Adeline began to notice in her hus- 
band an extreme attention to his dress; he dyed his 
hair and his whiskers, and buckled himself into belts 
and corsets. He was resolved to remain handsome at 
an}" cost. This cultivation of his person, a weakness 
he had formerly ridiculed in others, made him even 
finical. Adeline at last perceived that the Pactolus w'hich 
flowed among the Baron’s mistresses took its rise from 
her. During the last eight years a considerable fortune 
had been squandered, and so radicall}" made awa}" with 
that about the time young Hulot had married Crevel’s 
daughter, the Baron had been forced to admit to his 
wife that his salaiy and emoluments were all that re- 
mained to them. “ Where will all this lead us?” was 
her answer. “ Don’t be uneasy,” said the councillor of 
State ; “I will give j-ou all my emoluments, and I will 
provide for the marriage of Hortense and our own 
future by undertaking certain matters of business.” 
The wife’s unshaken faith in the power and high value 
of her husband’s character and capacit}" calmed her 
temporal’}" uneasiness. 


Cousin Bette, 


37 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE CHARACTER OF AN OLD MAID ; ORIGINAL, AND YET 
NOT AS UNCOMMON AS ONE MIGHT THINK. 

The nature of Madame Hulot’s reflections and the 
cause of her tears, after Crevel’s departure, can easily 
be conceived by the help of the foregoing explanations. 
The poor woman had known for the last two years that 
she was in the depths of an abyss ; but she thought she 
was the sole victim. She was ignorant of the terms on 
which her son’s marriage had been brought about ; she 
did not know of Hector’s relation to the grasping Jo- 
sepha ; and above all, she had hoped that no one on 
earth suspected her sorrows. If Crevel talked with 
levity of the baron’s irregularities, she was aware that 
Hector must fall in public estimation. She saw, through 
the coarse talk of the irritated ex-perfumer, the odious 
collusion of the two men to which tlie marriage of her son 
was due. Two abandoned women were the priestesses 
of that hymen, planned in some orgie, amid the degrad- 
ing familiarities of a pair of drunken old men ! “He for- 
got Hortense,” she said to herself. “Can it be that he 
will And her a husband in the society of those reprobate 
women?” The mother, stronger than the wife, spoke 
in these words as her eyes rested on Hortense, laugh- 
ing, with her cousin Bette, the eager laugh of thought- 
less girlhood, and she felt that those nervous sounds 


38 


Cousin Bette, 


were as terrible an indication of the girl’s feelings as 
her tearful reveries in the solitude of the garden. 

Hortense resembled her mother ; but she had golden 
hair whose natural curl and profusion were real!}" won- 
derful. The lustre of her skin was like mother-of-pearl. 
She was evidently the fruit of an honest marriage, of a 
pure and noble love in its fullest strength, shown in a 
passionate action of the whole countenance, a ga3xty in 
ever}’^ feature, a spirit of 3’outh, a freshness of life, a 
richness of health which vibrated about her, and sent 
forth electric currents. Hortense attracted the e3^e. 
When her own e3’^es — of an ultra-marine blue, floating 
in that fluid that comes of iiiuocenc3" — rested on some 
passer-b3" he quivered involuntarily. Not a single red 
blemish — the penalt3^ these golden blondes so often pay 
for their milk-white skins — marred her complexion. 
Tall, plump, without being fat, with a graceful figure, 
whose dignit3" equalled that of her mother, she merited 
the epithet of “ goddess” so lavishl3^ bestowed b3- old- 
fashioned writers. Persons who met her in the street 
could scarce restrain the exclamation, — “ Good heav- 
ens ! what a beautiful girl ! ” She herself was so truly 
guileless that she would turn and sa3' to her mother, 
‘‘How can they call me beautiful when 3’ou are with 
me? 3’ou are so much handsomer than 1.” In fact, 
though the baroness was fort3’-seven 3’ears old, admirers 
of the setting sun did prefer her to her daughter; for 
she had, to use the language of her sex, lost none of 
her advantages^ thanks to one of those rare phenom- 
ena, especiallj’ rare in Paris, which made Ninon the 
successful rival of three generations. 

Thinking of her daughter, the mother’s thoughts 


Cousin Bette. 


39 


reverted to the father ; she saw him sliding day by 
da}’, little by little, into the social slough, — possibly 
dismissed at last from the ministry. The idea of the 
fall of her idol, accompanied by vague visions of the 
sorrows which Crevel had prophesied, was so terrible 
to the poor woman that she lost consciousness in a 
species of painful ecstasy. 

Her cousin Bette, who was talking with Hortense, 
looked from time to time toward the house to see if 
they might return to the salon ; but her young compan- 
ion was teasing her with questions at the moment when 
the baroness opened the glass door, and she did not 
perceive the action. 

Lisbeth Fischer, five years younger than Madame 
Hulot, though she was the daughter of the elder brother, 
was far from being as beautiful as her cousin, and she 
had long been prodigiously jealous of her. Jealousy 
was in fact the basis of a character full of eccentricity 
(a word invented by Englishmen to designate the fol- 
lies, not of the people, but of the upper classes). A 
peasant woman of the department of the Vosges in the 
fullest meaning of that term, thin, dark-hued, with 
gleaming black hair, thick eyebrows meeting in a tuft, 
arms of great power and length, thick feet, and a few 
warts on the long, simian face, — such is a concise por- 
trait of this spinster cousin. 

The family of the two brothers, who lived together, 
sacrificed the plain daughter to the pretty daughter, 
the bitter fruit to the dazzling flower. , Lisbeth worked 
while Adeline was petted and indulged ; and there came 
a day when the former, alone with Adeline, tried to 
disfigure the latter’s nose, — a true Grecian nose, the 


40 


Cousin Bette. 


admiration of old women. Though whipped for this par- 
ticular misdeed, she never could be prevented from tearing 
the dresses and spoiling the collars of the petted darling. 

After the astounding marriage of her cousin, Lisbeth 
bowed before that superior destin}', just as the brothers 
and sisters of Napoleon bowed before the grandeur of 
a throne and the might of authorit}’. Adeline, always 
good and tender, bethought herself of Lisbeth after 
she reached Paris, and invited her there in 1809, in- 
tending to get her married and save her from future 
poverty. Finding it a slower matter than the}’ expected 
to marry off a girl with black e3’es and beetling brows, 
w'ho was unable either to read or write, Baron Hulot 
began by giving her a trade ; he apprenticed Lisbeth 
to the famous Pons brothers, embroiderers to the im- 
perial court. 

Cousin Lisbeth, calle(^ “Bette” for short, became 
henceforth a worker of gold and silver lace. Energetic, 
like all mountaineers, she had the courage to be taught 
to read, write, and cipher, for the baron proved to her 
the need of those accomplishments if she was ever to 
have an establishment of her own in the trade. She 
resolved to make her fortune ; and in two j’ears she 
actuall}^ metamorphosed herself. In 1811 the peasant 
woman of Lorraine was a rather pleasing, capable, and 
intelligent forewoman in a prosperous house. 

This business, called the gold-and-silver lace-trade, 
comprised the making of epaulets, aignillettes, sword- 
knots, — in shoij^, all that enormous quantit}’ of brilliant 
things which glittered on the uniforms of the French 
arm}’, and the coats of civilians during the empire. The 
Emperor, a true Italian lover of costume, required gold 


Cousin Bette. 


41 


and silver embroidery on every seam of his servants’ 
clothes, and his empire extended over one hundred and 
thirty-three departments. To furnish these embroid- 
eries to the tailors, — a wealth}^ and sure-paying body 
of tradesmen, — or to the grand dignitaries themselves, 
was a safe business. 

At the very moment when Lisbeth Fischer, the best 
workwoman of the Pons establishment, where she super- 
intended the manufactor}^, was about to start in busi- 
ness for herself, the fall of the empire occurred. The 
olive-branch of peace in the hands of the Bourbons 
frightened Bette. She feared the trade would succumb 
now that there were only eight 3 ’-four departments in- 
stead of a hundred and thirt}’-three to supply, not to 
speak of the enormous reduction of the arm}", conse- 
quently of uniforms. Terrified at the prospect, she 
refused the offers of the baron to set her up in busi- 
ness ; for which perversity he thought her crazy. She 
still further justified that opinion by quarrelling with 
Monsieur Rivet, purchaser for the Pons establishment, 
with whom the baron wished her to form a partnership. 
The matter ended by her becoming once moie a mere 
journeywoman. 

The Fischer family had by this time fallen back into 
the condition of precarious poverty from which Baron 
Hulot had lifted them. Ruined by the catastrophe of 
Fontainebleau, the three Fischer brothers served as a 
forlorn hope with the fmnc-tireurs of 1815. The 
eldest, father of Lisbeth, was killed. Adeline’s father, 
condemned to death by court-martial, fled to Germany 
and died at Treves in 1820. The younger brother, 
Johann, came to Paris and implored the assistance of 


42 


Cousin Bette, 


the queen of the ; who, it was said, dined off 

silver and gold, and never appeared in company with- 
out diamonds on her head and throat as big as filberts, 
given to her, so the story went, by the Emperor. Jo- 
hann Fischer, then forty-three years of age, received 
from Baron Hulot the sum of ten thousand francs to 
start a small forage business for the army at Versailles ; 
to obtain this concession the baron employed some 
secret influence which he still possessed with friends 
in the ministry of war. 

These family misfortunes, the loss of Baron Hulot’s 
official position, the certainty that she could be of no 
account in the vast turmoil of men, events, and interests 
in Paris, cowed Lisbeth Fischer. Thenceforth she 
gave up all idea of competition with her beautiful 
cousin, whose many superiorities she inwardly acknowl- 
edged ; but envy lurked in her breast, as a germ of 
the plague lurks in a bale of woollen stuffs onl^^ to 
burst forth and ravage a city when the bale is opened. 
From time to time she said to herself, “ Adeline and I 
are of the same blood ; our fathers were brothers ; j^et 
she lives in a mansion, I in a garret.” Nevertheless 
she accepted presents from the baron and Madame Hulot 
on her birthda3’ and at the New- Year ; the baron, who 
was always good to her, supplied her with winter fuel ; 
old General Hulot invited her to dinner one day in the 
week, and her place was laid at her cousin’s table ever}^ 
day in the year. They all made fun of her, but they 
were not ashamed of her. The}^ had given her an in- 
dependent position in the great city, where she lived as 
she pleased. 

The woman herself dreaded slyiy species of yoke. 


Cousin Bette. 


43 


Adeline offered her a home in her house ; Bette at once 
rebelled at the halter of obligation. Man}- a time the 
baron tried to solve the difficult problem of manning 
her ; but though she yielded to the first advances, she 
refused each proposal, fearing to be slighted for her 
want of education, her ignorance, and the lack of dowry. 
When the baroness proposed that she should live with 
their uncle and keep his house, instead of his being sad- 
dled with an expensive housekeeper, she replied that 
she certainly should never marry in that way. 

In all her ideas cousin Bette was an oddity, — like 
other natures that develop late, especially savages, who 
think much and speak little. Her peasant mind had ac- 
quired from the talk of the workrooms and the compan- 
ionship of both male and female workpeople a strong 
tinge of Parisian sarcasm. This woman, whose charac- 
ter bore a marked resemblance to that of Corsicans, and 
who was uselessly goaded by the instincts of a powerful 
nature, would have loved to protect a feeble man ; and 
yet, as a result of living in the great capital, the capital 
had changed her on the surface. Parisian polish cre- 
ated rust upon that powerfull}’ tempered spirit. Gifted 
with a shrewdness now become fundamental, as it does 
in all persons vowed to real celibacy, she would, owing 
to the pungent turn she gave to her ideas, have seemed 
a person to be feared in any other situation than the 
one she was in. Malicious in heart, she was capable 
of setting the most united family by the ears. 

In her earlier days, when she cherished a few hopes, 
the secret of which she told to no one, she made up 
her mind to wear corsets and follow the fashions ; it 
was then that she appeared with a passing resplendence 


44 


Cousin Bette. 


which made the baron think she might be marriageable. 
For a time she became the piquante brunette of the 
old-fashioned French novel. Her piercing glance, her 
olive skin, and reed-like waist might have tempted some 
half-pay major ; but she was satisfied, as she laughingly 
declared, with her own admiration. She ended by 
being really contented with her life ; curtailing most of 
its material cares by dining every evening with friends, 
after working at her trade since sunrise. She had only 
her breakfast and her lodging to provide ; friends sup- 
plied her with clothing and money and many accept- 
able provisions, such as sugar, wine, etc. 

In 1837, cousin Bette, after living in Paris for twent 3 '- 
seven years, partly at the expense of the Hulots and 
her uncle Fischer, resigned herself to the fact that she 
was a nobody and allowed people to treat her as the}^ 
pleased. She refused to be present at dinner-parties, 
preferring the famil}’ gatherings where she herself could 
be of consequence ; thus avoiding the sufferings of self- 
love. Wherever she thus went, whether to the houses 
of old General Hulot, Crevel, 3 ’oung Hulot, and Rivet 
(who had succeeded to the Pons business and with 
whom she had become reconciled and who now showed 
her much hospitality), or to that of her cousin, Madame 
Hulot, she was received as one of the famil 3 ". She 
knew how to propitiate the servants with little fees 
given from time to time, and by exchanging a few 
words with them before entering the salon. This 
familiarit 3 ^ which she frankly put herself on a level 
with the domestics, won their backstairs good-will, an 
essential gain to parasites. “That’s a kind, good 
creature ! ” was the verdict everybody passed upon 


Cousin Bette, 


45 


her. Her obliging helpfulness, which was boundless 
if no one exacted it, as well as her specious good- 
humor, was a necessity of her position. She ended by 
considering her life at the mercy of everybody ; wish- 
ing to please everybody she laughed and chattered with 
the 3’oung people, to whom she made herself acceptable 
by a fondling manner which alwa^'s attracts them ; she 
guessed and furthered their wishes and even interpreted 
them, and was the best of all confidantes because she had 
no authority to find fault. Her absolute discretion won 
the confidence of older persons, for she possessed, like 
Ninon, some of the qualities of a man. As a general 
thing people usually make confidences to those beneath 
them rather than to those above them ; they employ 
their inferiors far more than their superiors in secret 
matters ; such persons consequently become the sharers 
of their hidden thoughts ; they are called into private 
discussions ; even Richelieu thought himself sure of 
power when he was allowed to be present at a council of 
state. This poor old maid was thought to be so depend- 
ent on every one about her that she was to all intents 
and purposes a deaf-mute. She even nicknamed herself 
“ the family confessional.” Madame Hulot alone, remem- 
bering the harsh treatment she had herself received in 
childhood from this cousin so much stronger though 
younger than she, felt a certain distrust of her and made 
her no confidences. But in any case, the baroness, 
from a sense of decency, would have confided her 
domestic miseries to none but God himself. 

Perhaps it is well to state here that the Hulot man- 
sion still retained its splendor in the eyes of cousin 
Bette, who was not struck, like the parvenu ex- 


46 


Cousin Bette, 


perfumer by the poverty bursting from the moth-eaten 
covers, the stained curtains and the ragged stuffs. The 
furniture we live with is in some respects like ourselves. 
By dint of seeing our own persons daily we end, as 
the baron did, by thinking we are little changed and 
still young while others note that our heads are turning 
to the color of chinchilla, that circumflex accents are 
coming out upon our foreheads, and pumpkin-like pro- 
jections on our stomachs. The mansion therefore con- 
tinued to shine in the old maid's eyes with the Bengal 
lights of imperial victories. 

In course of time cousin Bette contracted certain 
peculiarities of old-maidism. For example, instead of 
following the fashions, she made them conform to her 
own habits, and yield to many of her old fashioned predi- 
lections. If the baroness gave her a pretty bonnet or a 
dress of the newest cut, Bette at once remade it after 
her own ideas, ift some fashion which recalled the em- 
pire and her former Lorraine costume, A thirtj’-frane 
bonnet became a nondescript covering, the pretty dress 
a wisp of odds and ends. In such matters Bette was 
obstinate as a mule, — she was resolved to please herself 
and considered the result charming ; but the real truth 
was that this curious assimilation, though it harmonized 
with her nature and made her from head to foot a reg- 
ular old maid, made her also so ridiculous that few, 
even with kindest intentions, were willing to receive 
her in their houses on gala days. 

The restive, independent, wilful spirit, and the in- 
explicable untamability of this woman, for whom the 
baron had four times found a husband (a clerk in his 
ministry, a major, a purveyor, and a retired captain), 


Cousin Bette, 


47 


and who had refused a dealer in the gold-lace trade, 
who afterwards became wealth}^, fully accounted for 
the nickname of “ Nann3’-goat ” which the baron be- 
stowed upon her. And 3’et the name onl3" answered 
to the external oddities of her behavior, to those sur- 
face exhibitions which we make to each other in our 
social state. This woman, if carefully observed, would 
have betrayed the ferocious side of the peasant class ; 
she was still the child who longed to tear the nose from 
her cousin’s face, and, if she had not acquired a stock 
of common-sense, might even now kill her in a parox- 
ysm of jealousy. It was only through her acquired 
knowledge of life and of the laws that she was able to 
control those rapid impulses by which the people of 
isolated regions and savages pass from feeling to ac- 
tion. Possibl3' the whole difference between the natu- 
ral man and the civilized man lies here. The savage 
has feelings onl3" ; the civilized being has feelings and 
ideas. Therefore among savages the brain receives, as 
it were, few imprints ; it is wholl3" in the grasp of the 
feeling that invades it. But in civilized man ideas de- 
scend upon the heart and transform it ; he is possessed 
b3^ many interests, many feelings, whereas the savage 
has but one idea, one feeling, at a time. That is the 
cause of the momentar3’ power of the child over its 
parents, — a power which ceases as soon as the child’s 
desire is satisfied ; but in the man who lives close to na- 
ture that cause is continuous. Cousin Bette, the Lorraine 
savage, more or less treacherous, belonged to the cate- 
gory of such natures, who are not so uncommon among 
the masses as people think for, — a fact which goes far 
to explain their conduct in revolutions. 


48 


Cousin Bette, 


If, at the particular time when this history begins, 
cousin Bette had chosen to dress in the fashion, — if 
she had, like other Parisian women, lent herself to the 
changing modes, — she might have been presentable and 
even acceptable ; but she was now as rigid and unyield- 
ing as a pole. Without the charm of grace woman may 
be said not to exist in Paris. And thus it was that the 
abundant black hair, the handsome hard e3’es, the firm 
lines of the face, the -Calabrian sallowness of the skin 
which made cousin Bette an embodiment of Giotto’s 
women, and out of which a true Parisian would have 
made capital, above all, her strange attire gave her so 
odd an appearance that she sometimes looked like a 
dressed-up monkey", such as the little savo3'ards carry 
about on their organs. As she was well known in the 
various houses united b3^ famil3’ ties to which she con- 
fined her social evolutions, and was also fond of her own 
home, her singularities offended no one, and passed 
unnoticed in the vortex of Parisian streets, where no 
woman is looked at unless she is prett3\ 

Hortense was laughing at having got the better of 
her cousin Bette’s obstinac3^ and wrung from her an 
avowal she had been seeking for three 3’ears. However 
sly an old maid may be, there is one sentiment which 
will alwa3’S make her open her lips, — namel3", vanit3’. 
For three years past Hortense, who was extremely 
curious on a certain point, had assailed her cousin with 
questions which showed her own perfect innocence ; 
she wanted to know why her cousin had never married. 
Hortense knew the histor3" of the five rejected suitors, 
and had built up a little romance of her own, believing 
that Bette was secretly in love ; and out of this belief a 


Cousin Bette. 


49 


war of jokes had arisen. Hortense would sa}^ ‘^We 
young girls,” referring to herself and her cousin. Bette 
sometimes replied in a jesting tone, “ Who told you I 
had a lover? ” Cousin Bette’s lover, real or pretended, 
became thenceforth the subject of much friendly teas- 
ing. At the end of two 3'ears Hortense said one day as 
usual, “How is 3’our lover?” 

“Pretty well,” answered Bette ; “ he suffers a good 
deal sometimes, — poor 3'oung man ! ” 

“Ah! is he delicate?” asked Madame Hulot, 
laughing. 

“Yes, indeed; he is a blonde. A brown girl like 
me could n’t love a man unless he were as fair as the 
moon.” 

“ But who is he? What does he do? ” said Hortense ; 
“ is he a prince?” 

“ Prince of the lathe, just as I am queen of the bob- 
bins,” answered Bette. “ A poor girl can’t be loved 
now-a-da3’s b3" the lord of a castle rolling in money, or 
a duke, or a peer, or a Prince Charming as it is in 
3’our faiiy-tales.” 

“ Oh, how I should like to see him ! ” cried Hortense. 

“ And find out what sort of fellow he is who can love 
an old nann3’-goat like me,” declared Bette. 

“ He must be some queer clerk with a goatee I ” said 
Hortense, looking at her mother. 

“ That’s as true as that 3’ou have no lover! ” said 
Bette, with an offended air. 

“ Well, if you have one, Bette, wh3' don’t you marry 
him ? ” asked Madame Hulot, making a sign to her 
daughter. “ P'or the last three years 3’ou have been 
talking about him ; 3"ou have certainl3’ had time to 
4 


50 


Cousin Bette. 


stud}’ him, and if he continues faithful 3’ou ought not to 
keep him waiting any longer. It is a matter of con- 
science ; besides, if he is young, it is well to get a staff 
for his old age.” 

Bette looked fixedly at the baroness, and seeing that 
she spoke in jest answered: “Then I should marry 
hunger and thirst. He is a workman and I am a work- 
woman ; if we had children they ’d be work-people. 
No, no, our souls love each other ; that does n’t cost 
anything.” 

‘ ‘ Why do you hide him ? ” asked Hortense. 

“ Because he lives in his shirt-sleeves,” answered 
Bette, laughing. 

“ Do you love him? ” asked Madame Hulot. 

“ Ah, I should think so ! I love him for himself, the 
cherub ! It is now four years since I took him into my 
heart.” 

“Well, if 3’ou really love him for himself,” said Ma- 
dame Hulot, gravely, “that is, if he reall}’ exists, you 
do very wrong towards him. You don’t know what it 
is to love.” 

“We are all born to know that business ! ” cried 
Bette. 

“ No ; there are some women who love and who 
stay selfish through it all ; and that ’s your case,” said 
the baroness. 

Bette lowered her head at this, and the glance of her 
e3’e would have made whoever received it shudder ; but 
it fell on her knitting. 

“ If you bring the lover (if there is a lover) here, 
Hector may be able to find him a situation, and put 
him in the way to get on,” resumed Madame Hulot. 


Cousin Bette, 


61 


“ That ’s impossible ! ” answered Bette. 

“Why so?” 

“ He ’s a Pole, — a sort of refugee.” 

“A conspirator!” exclaimed Hortense. “Oh, j’ou 
happy woman I Has he had adventures ? ” 

“ Yes ; he fought for Poland. He was professor in 
a college where the rebellion first broke out among the 
collegians, and, as he owed his appointment to the 
Grand-duke Constantine, he has no chance of being 
pardoned.” 

“ Professor of what?” 

“ The fine arts.” 

“ Did he come to Paris after the defeat?” 

“ He crossed Germany on foot in 1833.” 

“ Poor young man ! how old is he?” 

“ He was twenty-four at the time of the rebellion ; 
he is barely twenty-nine now.” 

“ Fifteen yesLYS younger than you ! ” said Madame 
Hulot. 

“ How does he support himself?” asked Hortense. 

“ By his talents.” 

“ Does he give lessons?” 

“No,” answered Bette; “he receives them, — and 
hard ones, too.” 

“ What is his Christian name? Is it pretty?” 

“ Wenceslas.” 

“What an imagination old maids have!” cried the 
baroness. “To hear you talk, Lisbeth, one would think 
you believed what you are saying.” 

All three began to laugh. Hortense sang, “ Wen- 
ceslas, idol of my soul ! ” instead of “ Oh, Matilde ! ” 
and a truce was declared. 


52 


Cousin Bette, 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE YOUNG MAID AND THE OLD ONE. 

“ You young girls,” said cousin Bette, on the occa- 
sion of their next meeting, ‘ ‘ think no one is ever loved 
but 3’ourselves.” 

“ Well,” answered Hortense, “ prove to me that 
Wenceslas is not a myth, and I ’ll give you my yellow 
cashmere shawl.” 

“ He is a count.” 

“ All Poles are counts.” 

“He is not exactly a Pole ; he comes fron Li — 
Lith— ” 

“»Ho you mean Lithuania?” 

“No.” 

“ Livonia? ” 

“Yes, that’s it.” 

“ Tell me his name.” 

‘ ‘ How do I know whether you can keep a secret ? ” 

“ Oh, cousin, I ’ll be as mute as — ” 

“A fish?” 

“ As a fish.” 

‘ ‘ By your eternal salvation ? ” 

“ By m}^ eternal salvation.” 

“ No, that won’t do, — by all 3’our earthly happiness ? ” 
“ Yes.” 

“Well, then, his name is Wenceslas Steinbock.” 


Cousin Bette. 53 

“That's the name of one of Charles the Twelfth's 
generals." 

“ His great uncle. His father went to live in Livo- 
nia after the death of the king of Sweden ; but he lost 
all his property during the campaign of 1812, and died 
leaving the poor boj", then eight years old, without re- 
sources. The Grand-duke Constantine took him under 
his protection, on account of the name of Steinbock, 
and sent him to school." 

“ I won’t go back on m}'- word," said Hortense. 
“prove his existence, and the shawl is yours; it is 
the very color for your brown skin." 

“ Promise you will keep my secret." 

“ I 'll give 3’ou mine in exchange." 

“ Well, the next time I come I 'll bring the proof 
with me." 

“ But the proof must be the lover himself," said 
Hortense. 

Cousin Bette, a victim, ever since her arrival in Paris, 
to a longing for cashmere shawls, was fascinated b}^ the 
thought of possessing this particular yellow camel’s- 
hair, given by the baron to his wife in 1808, and accord- 
ing to the custom of certain families passed over to the 
daughter in 1830. During the last ten years the shawd 
had grown the worse for wear, but still the precious 
fabric, alwa^’S carefull}^ laid awaj" in a sandal-wood 
box, seemed, like Madame Hulot's furniture, to keep 
its freshness in the eyes of the old maid. Therefore, 
on the day in which our stoiy opens she had brought 
a birthday' present in her bag for the baroness, which 
was also to be a means of proving to Hortense the 
existence of the mysterious lover. 


54 


Cousin Bette, 


The present was a silver seal cut with three figures 
entwined in garlands and bearing up a globe. They rep- 
resented Faith; Hope, and Charity. Their feet rested 
on monsters who were writhing and rending each other, 
among them the s 3 ’mbolic serpent. In 1846, after the 
immense stride in the art of Benvenuto Cellini taken bj^ 
Mademoiselle de Fauveau, Wagner, Jeanest, Froment- 
Meurice, and the carvers in wood like Lienard, this lit- 
tle masterpiece might have passed unnoticed ; but at the 
time of which we write a 3 "oung girl able to judge of jew- 
elry was naturally enchanted as she examined the seal 
which Bette placed in her hand with the remark, “ There, 
what do 3 ’ou think of that? ” The little figures belonged, 
in design, draper 3 % and action, to the school of Raphael ; 
in execution they recalled the work of the Florentine 
bronze school created by Donatello, Brunelleschi, Ghi- 
berti, Benvenuto Cellini, John of Bologna, etc. The 
French renaissance never contorted more misshapen 
monsters than those which S3"mbolized evil passions. 
The palms and ferns, the reeds and rushes, that draped 
the Virtues were disposed and grouped with a witching 
charm disheartening to workers of the craft. A fillet 
held the three heads lightly bound together, and on the 
background space between them were engraved the 
letter W, a chamois, and the word fecit. 

“Who did it?” asked Hortense. 

“My lover, of course,” answered Bette. “There’s 
ten months’ labor in it. I earn more at making sword- 
knots. He tells me that ‘ Steinbock’ means in German 
a rock-deer or chamois. That ’s the way he signs his 
work. Ah, I shall have your shawl — ” 

“ Wh 3 ’ so?” 


Cousin Bette. 


55 


“ Could I bu}’ such a gem as that? Impossible ; con- 
sequentl}’ it was given to me. Who is likel}^ to make 
such a present? A lover, of course.” 

Hortense, with a wftriness that would have frightened 
Lisbeth Fischer if she had noticed it, was careful not to 
express all the admiration that she felt ; but in truth 
she had just received that shock of delight which comes 
to souls that are open to the beautiful when they behold 
a faultless, perfect, and unexpected masterpiece. 

“ It is reallj’ lovely,” she said. 

“ Yes, it is lovely,” said the old maid ; “ but I pre- 
fer the orange cashmere. Well, little one, my lover 
spends all his time working on such things. Since he 
came to Paris he has made three or four little knick' 
knacks of that kind, and there *s the whole result of 
four years’ study and labor. He apprenticed himself at 
a foundry to learn casting, and then at a jeweller’s — 
bah ! every penn}" he had went that way. But he tells 
me he shall be rich and famous in a few months.” 

“ Then j^ou really do see him?” 

“ Do you think I am making it all up? I have told 
3’ou the truth in joke.” 

“ And he loves 3’ou?” asked Hortense, eagerly. 

“ He adores me,” answered her cousin, speaking seri- 
ously. “ The fact is, my pet, he has only known those 
pale, insipid women of the North ; a dark, young, sup- 
ple girl like me has warmed him up. But sa3^ nothing 
about it ; you promised me that.” 

“ You will treat him like all the five others,” said 
Hortense, maliciously, as she looked at the seal. 

“ Six, if 3^ou please ; I left one behind me in Lorraine 
who would get me the moon to-day if I cried for it.” 


56 


Cousin Bette, 


“ This one does better still; he gives 3’0ii the sun.” 

“ But I can’t turn it into mone3^ One must have a 
great estate before the shining of the sun will bring us 
any profit.” 

These little jokes, followed hy nonsense that can be 
easil}’ guessed at, caused the laughter which redoubled 
Madame Hulot’s distress ; it forced her to compare her 
daughter’s future with her present light-heartedness as 
the girl gave wa}’ to the ga^^etj* of her 3’ears. 

“ But if he gives 3'ou a gem that has cost him six 
months’ labor, he must be under some great obligation 
to you,” insisted Hortense ; for the treasure in her hand 
caused her sundiy reflections. 

“You want to know too much,” answered Bette. 
“ However, listen ; I ’ll let 3’ou into the scheme — ” 

“ With 3*our lover?” 

“Ah! you want to see him I But don’t 3’ou know 
that an old maid, like 3’our cousin Bette, who has hid- 
den a lover for five 3'ears can hide him still. No, no ; 
let me alone. I ’ve neither cat nor canaiy-bird, nor dog 
nor parrot. An old nann3" like me must have some lit- 
tle bit of a thing to love, or to tease. Well, I ’ve taken 
a Pole.” 

“ Has he a moustache? ” 

“Long as that,” said Bette, holding up a mesh of 
gold thread. 

She always brought her embroidery and worked while 
waiting for dinner. 

“ If you ask me so man3^ questions 3’ou will never 
find out anything. You are only twent3^-two years 
old, and you gossip more than I do at forty-two — 
I might say forty-three.” 


Cousin Bette. 


57 


“ Well, I’m dumb ; I ’ll listen,” said Hortense. 

“ My lover has made a bronze group ten inches 
high,” continued cousin Bette. ‘‘ It represents Sam- 
son conquering a lion. He buried it and got it dis- 
colored and rusty till it looks to be as old as Sam- 
son himself. This master-piece is in the window of 
one of those bric-^-brac dealers whose shops are on 
the place du Carrousel quite close to my lodging. If 
3’our father, who knows Monsieur Popinot, the minister 
of commerce and agriculture,- and the Comte de Ras- 
tignac, would speak to either of them about it, and call 
it a beautiful antique which he noticed in passing, m3' 
lover’s fortune would be made b3' the mere mention 
of the trumpeiy bit of brass ; I am told the great peo- 
ple think more of such things now than of swoi’d-knots. 
My poor boy declares that if the3'^ take the thing for an 
antique the3' will pa3' any price for it. If one of the 
ministers were to bu3' the group, Wenceslas could come 
forward and prove that he made it himself, and be 
carried in triumph ! Oh, he fancies he can mount the 
pinnacle of fame ! he ’s proud, that3’Oung man, as proud 
as two new-made counts.” 

‘ ‘ A second edition of Michael Angelo ; but, for a 
lover, he seems to have kept his senses,” remarked 
Hortense. “How much does he ask for it?” 

“ Fifteen hundred francs. The dealer won’t let it 
go for less because he has to make his commission.” 

“Papa is steward of the King’s household just at 
present,” said Hortense. “ He meets the two minis- 
ters every da3^ at the Chamber, and I ’ll see that he 
does what you want. You shall be a rich woman, 
Madame la Comtesse de Steinbock.” 


58 


Cousin Bette, 


“No, never; man is too lazy; he spends whole 
weeks twisting red wax and doing nothing. He is 
always at the Louvre or the Bibliotheque, turning over 
prints and making sketches. He is an idler.” 

The two cousins continued to joke and chatter ; but 
Hortense laughed a forced laugh, for she was suddenly 
seized by a feeling which comes to all young girls, — 
love for something unknown, love in its vague state, 
when thoughts begin to gather about a shape which 
chance has flung in its way, like the frost-flowers which 
the breeze designs upon a window pane. For the last 
few months Hortense had played with the idea of 
Bette’s fantastic lover, pretending that he was a real 
being because she believed, as did her mother, in the 
confirmed celibac}^ of their cousin ; and now, for the 
last week, the phantom had become a Comte Wenceslas 
Steinbock ; the vision had a certificate of baptism ; the 
misty figure solidified into a young man thirty 3'ears of 
age. The seal which she held in her hand, an Annun- 
ciation, as it were, of genius breaking forth like light, 
had the power of a talisman. Hortense felt so happy 
that she began to believe in the truth of the story ; her 
blood stirred, and she laughed idiotically with a desire 
to divert her cousin’s observation. 

“ I think I saw mamma open the door of the salon, 
cousin Bette,” she said; “let us go and see if Mon- 
sieur Crevel has gone. Poor mamma has been sad for 
two days ; that marriage they were talking of must be 
broken olf.” 

‘ ‘ Bah ! it can be brought on again. It was — I may 
tell you this much — with a law^’er of the supreme 
court. Should 3’ou like to bl Madame la prcsidente> 


Cousin Bette, 


59 


If it depends on Monsieur Crevel, he will tell me some- 
thing about it, and I shall know what hope there is.” 

“ Cousin, leave the seal with me,” said Hortense. 
“I won’t show it to mamma ; her birthday is a month 
hence, and I will give it back to j’oii before then.” 

“ No, give it me now ; it must have a case.” 

“ But I want to show it to papa, so that he may 
know what he is talking about when he mentions the 
Samson to the ministers ; people in authority are so 
afraid of compromising themselves.” 

“Well, don’t show it to 3"our mother, that’s all I 
ask ; if she knew that I really had a lover she would 
make fun of me,” replied Bette. 

“ I promise 3’ou I won’t.” 

The two cousins reached the door of the boudoir just 
as Madame Ilulot fainted, and Hortense’s cr^^ of terror 
brought her to her senses. Bette ran for salts ; when 
she returned she found mother and daughter in each 
other’s arms, the mother soothing the daughter’s fears, 
and saying, — 

“It is nothing, nothing; only a nervous attack. 
Here comes 5"our father,” she added, recognizing the 
baron’s way of ringing the bell. “ Be sure j’ou do not 
tell him of this.” 

Adeline rose to meet her husband, intending to take 
him into the garden while waiting for dinner, and there 
speak to him of the ruptured marriage, compel him to 
talk of the future, and tr}" to give him a little advice. 

Baron Hector Hulot appeared in a parliamentary 
and Napoleonic attire. It was easy to recognize the 
men formerly attached to the empire by their military 
carriage, their blue coats and gilt buttons buttoned to 


60 


Cousin Bette. 


the throat, their black silk neckcloths, and an authori- 
tative step and manner contracted from the habit of 
despotic command required by the rapidh' changing 
circumstances in which the}’ lived. It must be owned 
that there was nothing of the old man about the baron ; 
his eyesight was still so good that he could read with- 
out spectacles ; his handsome oval face, framed with 
whiskers (alas, too black !), had a health}" skin marbled 
with red and showing a sanguine temperament ; his 
stomach, carefully belted in, attained, in the words of 
Brillat-Savarin, to the majestic. A marked air of 
aristocracy and much affability were the outward dis- 
guise of the libertine with whom Crevel had shared so 
many little suppers. He was one of the men whose 
eyes glisten on catching sight of a pretty woman, men 
who smile at all beauties, even those they pass in the 
streets and may never meet again.|k 

“Have you been speaking, dear?” said Adeline, 
noticing his anxious brow. 

“No,” replied Hector; “but I am worn out listen- 
ing to others for two. hours without coming to a vote. 
They battle with words, and their speeches are like 
charges of cavalry which never scatter the enemy. Talk 
is substituted for action ; and that can’t please men who 
are accustomed to advance, as I told the marechal just 
now when T came away. But I have been bored enough 
on the bench of ministers; come, let’s be gay here! 
Good evening. Nanny-goat; how are you, little kid?” 

He took his daughter by the neck, kissed her, teased 
her, put her on his knee, and laid her head upon his 
shoulder to feel the golden hair across his cheek. 

“He is tired and bored,” thought Madame Hulot, 


Cousin Bette, 


61 


“ and I shall have to worr}^ him still more ; I will wait. 
Shall you sta}" at home to-night ? ’’ she said aloud. 

“No, m3" dear. After dinner I am obliged to go 
out. If this were not the day when my brother and 
cousin Bette dine here you would not have seen me 
at all ! ” 

The baroness picked up the newspaper, looked at the 
theatre-list, and laid it down again after reading the 
programme for Kobert le Diable at the opera. Josepha, 
who had left the Italian for the French opera, was to 
sing the part of Alice. This pantomine did not escape 
the baron, who looked fixedly at his wife. Adeline 
lowered her e3’es, and went into the garden, where he 
followed her. 

“Come, Adeline, what is it?” he said, taking her 
round the waist and pressing her to him. “ Don’t 3^ou 
know I love 3"ou better than — ” 

“ Jenny Cadine and Josepha?” she said boldl}", in- 
terrupting him. 

“ Who told 3’ou that? ” said the baron, releasing her 
and stepping back two paces. 

“An anonymous letter, which I have burned, and 
w"hich told me also that our daughter’s marriage is de- 
feated because our circumstances are so embarrassed. 
Your wife, my dear Hector, would never have said a 
word ; she knew 3"Our liaison with Jenny Cadine. Did 
she ever complain ? But the mother of Hortense must 
tell you the truth — ” 

Hulot, after a terrible moment of suspense for his 
wife, the beating of whose heart could be distinctly’ 
heard, unfolded his arms, threw them round her, 
pressed her to his heart, kissed her on the forehead. 


62 


CouBin Bette, 


and said, with the ardor of enthusiasm, “ Adeline, you 
are an angel, and I am a wretch ! ” 

“ No, no ! ” cried the baroness, putting her hand upon 
his lips to prevent his saying evil of himself. 

“Yes, I have not a penny to give Hortense ; and I 
am very unhapp}". Now that you open your heart to 
me, I can pour into it all the troubles that are choking 
mine. Your uncle Fischer is embaiTassed, and it is 
through me. I got him to endorse a bill for twent3"-five 
thousand francs, — and all for a woman who deceives 
me, who makes fun of me when my back is turned, 
who calls me an old dyed cat! Oh, it is horrible, 
horrible that vice should cost more than the support of 
a family’, — and 3’et it is irresistible ! I might promise 
3'ou at this moment never to see that abominable Jew- 
ish woman again, but if she wrote me a single line I • 
should go, just as we followed the Emperor under fire.” 

“Don’t worry 3’ourself, Hector,” said the poor, dis- 
tressed woman, forgetting her daughter at sight of her 
husband’s tears. “ I have my diamonds ; take them 
and save m3" uncle at all hazards ! ” 

“ Your diamonds are scarcely worth twenty thousand 
francs, and that is not enough to save old Fischer. 
Keep them for Hortense ; I will consult the marechal 
to-morrow.” 

“Poor dear!” cried the baroness, taking her Hec- 
tor’s hands and kissing them. 

The scene was a homily. Adeline offered her dia- 
monds, the father gave them to Hortense; the wife 
thought his sacrifice sublime, and was powerless. 

“He is master ; all here is his. He leaves me those 
diamonds ; he is divine.” 


Cousin Bette. 


63 


Such was the inward thought of the woman, who per- 
haps gained more by her gentleness than she could 
have done b}" an outburst of jealous anger. 

A moralist cannot deny that persons who are well- 
bred and very vicious are often more agreeable than 
virtuous persons. Having sins to redeem, they bid for 
indulgence by being facile and forbearing with their 
judges, and thus they pass for excellent human beings. 
Though there are main" charming people among the 
virtuous, virtue considers herself so beautiful that she 
ma}" dispense with the cultivation of charm ; moreover 
persons who are reall}" virtuous (we must eliminate 
hypocrites) are alwa3"s slightly doubtful of their posi- 
tion ; the^" are apt to think themselves worsted in the 
great bargain of life, and give vent to sharp speeches 
after the manner of those who fanc}’ themselves under- 
valued. The baron, knowing he was to blame for the 
ruin of his famil}’, now displayed all the resources of 
his mind and his seductive graces to his wife, his chil- 
dren, and his cousin Bette. When his son and Celes- 
tine Crevel (who was nursing a little Hulot) arrived for 
the famil}’ dinner, he was all attention to his daughter- 
in-law, and fed her with compliments, — a form of nour- 
ishment to which Celestine’s vanity was not accustomed, 
for no heiress of the people was ever more common- 
place or more utterly insignificant. The grandfather 
took the baby, kissed it, called it charming and deli- 
cious, talked bab3"-talk, prophesied that the little puppet 
would be a greater man than he, and slipped in a few 
flatteries for his son, young Hulot, as he returned the in- 
fant to the arms of its stout Norman nurse. Celestine 
exchanged a glance with the baroness, which meant 


64 


Cousin Bette. 


I 


“ What a charming man ! ” Is it any wonder that she 
defended her father-in-law against the accusations of 
her own parent? 

After playing the agreeable father-in-law and the 
idolizing grandfather, the baron took his son into the 
garden to give him some sensible advice about the posi- 
tion he ought to take in the Chamber on the following 
day, when a certain delicate matter was to be brought 
up. The young lawj’er, filled with admiration for his 
fatlier’s .deep-sighted judgment, was touched by his tone 
of friendly confidence, above all by the sort of deference 
with which he seemed desirous to put his son on a level 
with himself. 

Hulot the 3 ’ounger was a fair specimen of the j'oung 
men manufactured b}^ the revolution of 1830, — minds 
infatuated with politics, solicitous about their own expec- 
tations, but hiding them under a false show of political 
earnestness, verv' jealous of men whose reputations are 
made, enunciating phrases, but never those incisive sa^"- 
ings which are the diamonds of French speech, con- 
ventional in deportment, and mistaking arrogance for 
dignity. These men are the perambulating coffins which 
contain the Frenchmen of other days ; the Frenchman 
within stirs every now and then and beats against his 
British casket ; bat ambition checks him, and he con- 
sents to be smothered. This coffin, we ma^- relnark, is 
always covered with black cloth. 

“Ah! here’s my brother,” said Baron Hulot, ad- 
vancing to the door of the salon to meet the count. 

After embracing the probable successor of the late 
Marechal Montcornet, he led him forward bj' the arm 
with every sign of affection and respect. 


Cousin Bette, 


65 


This peer of France, who was excused from attend- 
ing the sessions of his Chamber on account of deafness, 
had a noble head, calmed by 3’ears, and covered with 
graj' hair, still sufficiently abundant to show the pressure 
of his hat. Short, stock\’, and yet spare, he carried his 
green old age with a sprightly air, and as he retained 
all his activity, though condemned by his deafness to 
an idle life, he spent his time in reading and in walk- 
ing about. His simple habits and principles could be 
guessed from the pure tones of his face, his free carriage 
and manner, and his straight-forward talk on sensible 
matters. He never spoke of war or of his own cam- 
paigns ; he was too great to make any claim to great- 
ness. In a salon he confined himself to the quiet part 
of continual!}’ observing and anticipating the wishes of 
women. 

“ You are all very gay,” he said, noticing the ani- 
mation which the baron’s presence caused in the fam- 
ily circle. “ Hortense is not yet married,” he added, 
observing traces of distress on his sister-in-law’s coun- 
tenance.^ 

“ That will happen soon enough,” screamed Bette 
in his ear with a startling voice. 

“ Ah ! there 3’ou are, naught}’ girl who is determined 
to die an old maid ! ” he answered, laughing. 

The hero of Forzheim was rather fond of Bette, for 
there were certain likenesses between the two. With- 
out education, springing as he did from the people, his 
bravery had been the sole architect of his military for- 
tune, and his sound common-sense had stood him in 
place of intellect. Full of a sense of honor and pure in 
deed, he was now ending a noble life, in the midst of a 
6 


66 


Cousin Bette. 


family where all his affections centred, and where no 
suspicion of his brother’s secret misdoings reached him. 
No one enjoyed more than he the lovel}* spectacle of 
domestic union, where no contention ever rose and the 
brothers and sisters loved each other with an equal affec- 
tion, — for Celestine was looked upon as one of the 
family, a fact which made the kindly little count in- 
quire from time to time why her father did not make 
his appearance. 

“ My father has gone into the country,” cried Celes- 
tine in his ear. 

This genuine affection and family union made Ma- 
dame Hulot reflect deeply. “It is the surest of all 
happinesses,” she thought; “what can take it from 
us?” 

When the old general noticed the attentions which his 
favorite Adeline received from her husband, he made so 
many little jests that the baron, afraid of ridicule, turned 
his gallantry to his daughter-in-law, who at these fam- 
il}" dinners was always the special object of his flattery 
and devotion ; for he hoped through her to keep old 
Crevel in good humor and mollify his resentment. Any 
one looking in upon this family scene would have found 
it difficult to believe that the father was well-nigh ruined, 
the mother in despair, the son in the depths of anxiety 
as to his father’s future, and the daughter devising in 
her heart how to steal a lover from her cousin. 


Cousin Bette. 


67 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN WHICH PRETTY WOMEN ARE SEEN TO FLUTTER BEFORE 
LIBERTINES, JUST AS DUPES PUT THEMSELVES IN THE 
WAY OF SWINDLERS. 

About seven o’clock, or as soon as the baron saw 
bis brother, wife, son, and daughter sitting down to 
whist, he departed to applaud his mistress at the opera, 
taking with him his cousin Bette, who lived in the rue 
du Do3^enne, and alwa3^s made the loneliness of that 
localit3" an excuse to get awa3’ earl3^ after dinner. All 
Parisians will admit that the old maid’s precaution was 
reasonable. 

The retention of the block of houses which still ex- 
ists along the side of the old Louvre is one of those 
protests against common-sense which Frenchmen per- 
sist in making, apparently that Europe may feel eas3" 
as to the real measure of their intelligence, and cease 
to fear it. Perhaps we have some great political mo- 
tive, unknown to ourselves, in this retention. It is 
therefore not a digression to describe this corner of 
the Paris of the present day ; in after 3’ears no one 
will be able to imagine it, and our nephews, who will 
doubtless see the Louvre completed, ma3' refuse to be- 
lieve that such a piece of barbarism existed for thirt3’- 
six years in the heart of Paris, under the windows of 
a palace where three dynasties received, during those 
thirt3'-six years, the elite of F ranee and of Europe. Every 


68 


Cousin Bette. 


one who comes to Paris for no more than a few days 
must notice between the iron gate which leads to the 
pont du Carrousel and the rue du Musee, a dozen 
houses with tumble-down walls, whose owners, consid- 
ering them worthless, are unwilling to repair them, but 
allow them to stand as the last remnant of a former 
neighborhood pulled down under Napoleon’s orders 
when he determined to complete the Louvre. The street 
and cul-de-sac, called Doyenne, are the only roadways 
through this dark and deserted cluster of buildings, 
whose inhabitants are probably phantoms, for no one 
is ever seen there. The roadbed, which is much lower 
than the chaussee of the rue du Musee, is on a level 
with that of the rue Froidmanteau. The houses, for this 
reason half-buried, are still further sunken in the per- 
petual shadow cast by the upper galleries of the Louvre, 
blackened on this side by the action of the north wind. 
The gloom, the silence, the icy air, the cavernous de- 
pression of the soil, all combine to make the area of 
these houses a sort of crj^pt, in which each building is 
a living tomb. If we pass through this half-defunct 
quarter in a cab, and look up the blind alley which 
opens on the street, our minds shiver ; we ask our- 
selves who can possibly live here., and whether, if we 
passed at night, we should see the alley swarming with 
cut-throats, and all the vices of Paris mantled in 
darkness giving themselves full swing. This idea, 
alarming in itself, becomes terrifying when we notice 
that these strange houses are circled b}^ a marsh on the 
side of the rue de Richelieu, by a paved desert towards 
the Tuileries, by little gardens and treacherous-looking 
sheds under the galleries of the Louvi’e, and by long 


Cousin Bette. 


69 


stretches of broken stone left from the pulling down of 
former houses on the side of the old Louvre. Henry 
III. and his minions searching for their hose, the lovers 
of Marguerite searching for their heads, must dance 
many a saraband by the light of the moon in these 
deserted places, still overlooked b^^ a chapel which re- 
mains standing as if to prove that the Catholic religion, 
perennial in France, survives all else. For forty years 
the Louvre has cried aloud through the jaws of those 
broken walls, those yawning windows, Pluck these 
warts from my face ! ” But, no doubt, some utility has 
been discovered in this cut-throat region, — the useful- 
ness, perhaps, of symbolizing in the heart of Paris the 
close alliance between squalor and splendor which char- 
acterizes the queen of capitals. And so these chill ruins 
(in whose bosom the newspaper of the legitimists has 
acquired the disease of which it is now dying), these 
wretched hovels of the rue du Mu see, with the fence of 
boards inclosing them on one side, will probably have 
a longer and more prosperous existence than the three 
dynasties who have looked down upon them. 

After 1823 the low rents in these houses, doomed to 
eventual disappearance, had led Lisbeth Fischer to take 
up her abode in one of them, in spite of the necessit}' 
imposed upon her by the character of the neighborhood 
of getting home before dark. This necessity’ chimed in 
with the village custom, which she still retained, of going 
to bed and getting up with the sun, — a custom which 
ensures to country folk a notable economy in fuel and 
lights. She lived in one of the houses to which the 
pulling down of the famous mansion once occupied b}^ 
Cambaccres opened a view of the whole space. 


TO 


Cousin Bette, 


Just as Baron Hulot left his wife’s cousin at the door 
of this house with the words, “Adieu, cousin,” a tiny, 
graceful, pretty young woman, dressed with much ele- 
gance and diffusing a fashionable perfume, passed be- 
tween the carriage and the wall, as if about to enter the 
house. The lady exchanged a glance with the baron 
without the least premeditation, and solely for the pur- 
pose of seeing the cousin of the other tenant ; but the 
baron felt the keen sensation common to Parisians 
when they meet a pretty woman who realizes, as the 
entomologists say, their desiderata. With wise de- 
liberation he began to put on his gloves before re- 
entering the carriage, so as to recover his equanimity 
and be able to watch the young woman, whose dress 
was charmingly supported and swayed by something 
better than those hideous and fraudulent under-petticoats 
of crinoline. 

“ There ’s a pretty little woman,” he said to himself, 
“whose happiness I would gladly make, for I’m sure 
she could make mine.” 

When the unknown lady reached the landing of the 
stairway of the main building on the street, she looked 
back at the 'porte cochere from the corner of her eye, 
without exactly turning round, and saw the baron 
nailed to the spot b}^ admiration, desire, and curiosity. 
Such attraction is a flower whose perfume all Parisian 
^ women inhale with delight when it comes in their way. 
Some women who are truly attached to their duty, 
virtuous and pretty women, come home dissatisfled if 
the}^ have not gathered their little bouquet of admiration 
during their walks abroad. 

The young lady went quickly upstairs. Presently 


Cousin Bette. 


71 


the window of a room on the second floor opened, and 
the same woman showed herself, but accompanied by 
a gentleman whose bald head and somewhat severe eye 
proclaimed a husband. 

“Are not they clever and sly, those women!” 
thought the baron; “she is showing me where she 
lives. That’s a little too strong, — especially in this 
neighborhood. I must take care what I ’m about.” 
He looked up when he got back into the cab, where- 
upon the man and wife withdrew quickly, as if the 
baron’s face had produced the mj’thological eflect of 
Medusa’s head upon them. 

“One would think the}^ knew me!” thought Hulot. 
“ If they do, that explains it all.” 

When the cab had driven up to the level of the rue 
du Musee, the baron leaned forward once more to see 
the object of his admiration, and found that she had 
returned to the open window. Apparently ashamed at 
being caught, she drew back quickl3\ “ Never mind,” 
thought the baron, “I’ll And out who she is from 
Bette.” 

The appearance of the councillor of state had pro- 
duced, as we shall see, a deep impression on the couple. 

“ Wh3% that’s Baron Hulot, at the head of the de- 
partment in which mj^ office is ! ” cried the husband as 
he left the window. 

“Well then, Marneffe, the old maid on the third 
floor on the other side of the court-j^ard, who lives with 
that 3’oung man, is his cousin. How odd, that we should 
only And it out to-da}^, and by mere chance ! ” 

“ Mademoiselle Fischer living with a young man ! ” 
exclaimed the husband. “ Servants’ gossip ! don’t 


72 


Cousin Bette. 


talk so heedlessly of a councillor’s cousin — cousin of a 
man who makes the sun to shine and the rain to rain at 
the ministry. Come to dinner ; I ’ve been waiting for 
you since four o’clock.” 

This very pretty little woman, Madame Marneffe, 
natural daughter of the Comte de Montcornet, one of 
Napoleon’s most famous generals, was married on the 
strength of a dot of twenty thousand francs, to an 
under-clerk in the War Office. The influence of the illus- 
trious lieutenant-general, a marshal of France during the 
last six months of his life, helped the quill-driver to the 
unhoped-for position of head-clerk of his department ; 
but unfortunatel}", at the veiy moment when he was 
about to be appointed sub-director, the marshal’s death 
cut short his hopes and those of his wife. The slender 
means of the Sieur Marnetfe — for the dowry of Mad- 
emoiselle Valerie Fortin had already melted awa}', 
partly in payment of his own debts, partly in the ac- 
quisition of such things as a bachelor needs for the 
setting up of a home, but more particularly through the 
extravagance of the pretty wife, accustomed in her 
mother’s house to luxuries she was unwilling to forego 
— obliged the pair to practise economy in the matter 
of rent. The situation of the rue du Do3"enne, not far 
from the ministry of war and the centres of Parisian 
life, presented attractions to Monsieur and Madame 
Marnetfe, who for the last four years had lived in the 
same house with Mademoiselle Fischer. 

Jean Paul Stanislas MarneflTe belonged to a certain 
type of Parisian emplo^^e which escapes downright 
brutishness through a species of power which comes of 
degradation. This little thin man, wdth scanty hair 


Cousin Bette, 


73 


and beard, a blanched, etiolated face, worn-out ratlier 
than wrinkled, e3’elids rimmed with red and hidden by 
spectacles, ‘mean and shuffling in gait and still more 
mean in manner and bearing, embodied the t3'pe which 
we all imagine of a man brought into the police courts 
for offences against moral it3% 

The suite of rooms occupied b3’ this household — a 
specimen of man3" Parisian homes — wore the deceitful 
appearance of sham luxuiy which ma3’ be seen in such 
households. In the' salon the faded cotton-velvet of the 
furniture covering, the plaster statuettes pretending to 
be bronze, the clums3" chandelier painted in flat color, 
with its cups of blown glass, the carpet, whose cheap 
qualit3" appeared in the cotton threads put in by the 
manufacturer and visible to the naked eye at the first 
wear, — in short, everything, down to the very curtains 
which taught the truth that woollen damask keeps its 
glor3^ onl3^ three years, proclaimed the family poverty as 
plainl3" as a ragged beggar stationed at a church-door. 

The dining-room, ill- kept b3^ a single servant, had 
the sickening aspect of such rooms in a country inn, 
where eveiything is greasy and unclean. 

Monsieur Marneffe’s bedroom, resembling that of a 
student, furnished with a bachelor’s bed and other arti- 
cles as faded and worn as himself, and cleaned onl3" once 
a week, — a horrible bedroom, where eveiything la3" lit- 
tered about, and old slippers hung on chairs with hair- 
cloth coverings whose pattern was traced out in dust, 
— betra3'ed a man to whom his home was a matter of 
indifference ; who lived abroad in gambling-houses and 
cafes and elsewhere. 

Madame’s bedroom, on the other hand, was an ex- 


74 


Cousin Bette. 


ception to the ‘shameful neglect which degraded all the 
other rooms of the establishment where the curtains 
were yellow with smoke and dust, and the child of 
the family, evidently left to himself, strewed his play- 
things on the floor. Valerie’s bedroom and dressing- 
room, placed in the wing of the house, elegantly hung 
with chintz, and furnished in ebonized woods and a 
moquette carpet, were redolent of a prettj^ woman, one, 
let us admit, of the kept-mistress type. On the velvet 
drapery of the mantle-shelf stood a clock of the fashion 
of the period. Jardinieres of Chinese porcelain, a lit- 
tle dunJcerque well furnished, the bed, toilet- table and 
wardrobe with mirror door, a tete-a-tete sofa, and a 
variety of knick-knacks and other' trumpery testified to 
the caprices and refinements of fashion. 

Though the whole was of a third-class order of ele- 
gance and wealth, and bore the date of a three years’ 
luxury, a dandy would have found nothing to complain 
of, unless it were a certain stamp of bourgeoisie. An 
expert in social science would have detected the exist- 
ence of a lover in several costly gewgaws which come 
only of such demi-gods, unseen, and yet ever near mar- 
ried women of the Marnefife type. 

The dinner which awaited husband, wife, and child 
— a dinner kept back since four in the afternoon — was 
enough to explain the financial crisis of the family, for 
the dinner-table is the surest thermometer of prosperity 
in such Parisian households. Bean soup and a bit of 
veal, with potatoes deluged with browned water called 
gravy, a dish of haricot beans, and another of cher- 
ries of poor quality, served and eaten on chipped dishes 
and plates, with miserable forks and spoons of German 


Cousin Bette, 


75 


silver. Was that a proper repast for a prett}’ woman ? 
The baron would have wept had he seen it. The cloudy 
decanters did not conceal the horrid color of the wine 
bought by the quart from the casks of some corner 
wine-shop. The napkins had been used a week. In 
short, eveiything bespoke poverty without dignity", and 
the indifference of the wife and of the husband for the 
decencies of family life. The most ordinary observer 
would have felt as he beheld them that the pair had 
reached the fatal moment when sheer necessity of ex- 
istence was driving them to seek some lucky method 
of swindling for a living. 

The first words said by Valerie to her husband will 
explain the delay in the dinner hour. 

“ Samanon won’t take your notes for less than fifty 
per cent, and he requires you to assign over 3"Our 
salary.” 

Poverty, secret as j^et in case of the director at the 
War department, — who had, moreover, a salary of 
twenty-five thousand francs, not to mention perqui- 
sites, to fall back upon, — had reached its last phase 
with the subordinate. 

“Have you snared the baron?” said the husband, 
looking at the wife. 

“ I hope so,” she answered, not horrified at the 
expression. 

“What’s to become of us?” continued Marneffe. 
“ The landlord will seize everything to-morrow morn- 
ing. The idea of your father dying without a will ! I 
swear those empire fellows think themselves as immor- 
tal as their emperor.” 

“ Poor papa ! ” she said ; “ he had no child but me. 


76 


Cousin Bette. 


and he loved me. The countess must have burned his 
will. It is n’t likely that he forgot me ; he was always 
giving us three or four thousand francs at a time.” 

“We owe four quarters’ rent, — fifteen hundred francs. 
Is our furniture worth as much? — that is the question, 
as Shakespeare says.” 

“ Well, adieu, my dear,” said Valerie, who had onl}^ 
swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of the veal, from which 
the cook had extracted all the juice in behalf of a brave 
soldier just returned from Algiers; “ for great ills heroic 
remedies.” 

“Valerie, where are you going?” cried MarneflTe, 
stopping his wife on her way to the door. 

“ To see the landlord,” she answered, arranging her 
curls at a glass. “As for you, why don’t you try to cap- 
tivate the old maid, if she is really your chief’s cousin?” 

The ignorance of the various lodgers in the same 
house about each other is one of those perennial facts 
which show almost better than any other the hurly- 
burly of Parisian life. It is, however, quite easy to 
understand how a clerk going early to his office, re- 
turning only for his dinner and spending his evenings 
elsewhere, and a wife devoted to the amusements of 
Paris, should know little or nothing of the life of an 
old maid lodging on the third floor of the rear build- 
ing across the court, especially when the latter had the 
regular habits of Mademoiselle Fischer. 

Lisbeth, being the earliest riser in the house, fetched 
her milk, bread, and charcoal without exchanging a 
word with any one ; she went to bed with the sun ; she 
received neither visits nor letters, and had no acquaint- 
ances in the neighborhood. Hers was one of those 


Cousin Bette, 


77 


nameless, entomological existences such as turn up 
from time to time in certain houses, where at the end 
of three or four years you find that an old gentleman 
is living on the fourth fioor who knew Voltaire, Pias- 
tre du Rosier, Beaujon, Marcel, Mole, Sophie Arnould, 
Franklin, and Robespierre. The gossip that Madame 
Marneffe repeated of Lisbeth Fischer she had chanced 
to hear solel}^ by reason of the isolation of the neighbor- 
hood and the intimacy which their poverty established 
between themselves and the porter of the house, whose 
good-will was too necessary to them not to be carefully 
kept up. Now the pride and mute reserve of the old 
maid had given rise, on the part of the porter and his 
wife, to the exaggerated respect and cold civility which 
always denote a spirit of discontent in our subordi- 
nates. Porters are, moreover, apt to think themselves 
in the premises, as they say in the courts, on equal 
terms with a lodger who pays a rent of two hundred 
and fifty francs. The tale told by Bette to her little 
cousin Hortense being true, it is easy to see how the 
porter’s wife when gossiping with the Marneffes should 
calumniate Mademoiselle Fischer by merely relating it. 

When Bette took her candlestick from the worthy 
Madame Olivier, the said porter’s wife, she stepped for- 
ward to see if the window of the attic above her own 
room was lighted up. At this hour in the month of 
July the rooms on the courtyard were so dark that the 
old maid was unable to go to bed without a candle. 

“ Don’t be uneasy ; Monsieur Steinbock is at home ; 
he has n’t even left the house,” said the woman, jocosely, 
to Mademoiselle Fischer. 

Bette made no reply. She retained her peasant habits 


T 8 


Cousin Bette, 


so far as to scorn the gossip of persons out of her own 
range of intercourse ; like peasants, who know nothing 
beyond the boundaries of their own village, she cared 
only for the opinion of the little social circle in which 
she revolved. Consequenth- she went boldlj’ up, not 
to her own rooms, but to the attic, — for the following 
reason : when the dessert w'as served at the Hulots’ she 
had put a quantity of fruits and sweetmeats into her 
bag, intending, as usual, to give them to her lover, pre- 
cisely as an old maid gives a tidbit to a dog. 

She found the hero of her cousin’s imagination work- 
ing b}' the gleam of a little lamp, the light of which 
was increased by falling through a glass globe filled 
with water, — a pale, fair young man, sitting at a sort 
of workman’s-bench covered with carving and model- 
ling tools, red wax, rough-hewn pedestals and castings 
in brass ; dressed in a blouse and holding in his hand 
a little group done in modelling wax, at which he was 
gazing with the absorption of a poet in travail. 

“ Here, Wenceslas, see what I have brought 3’ou,” 
she said, putting her handkerchief on the corner of the 
bench. 

Then she took the fruits and sweetmeats carefully 
from her bag. 

“ You are very kind, mademoiselle,” said the poor 
exile, in a melancholy voice. 

“ They ’ll do you good, m3’ poor bo3^ You heat your 
blood working as you do ; you never were born for such 
a trade.” 

Wenceslas Steinbock looked at her in surprise. 

“Come, eat,” she said roughly, “instead of gazing 
at me as if I were one of your figures that please 3’ou.” 


Cousin Bette. 


T 9 


The surprise of the young man came to an end on 
receiving this cuff, as it were, of words. He recog- 
nized his female mentor whose tenderness always sur- 
prised him, so harshly was she in the habit of speaking 
to him. Though Steinbock was twenty-nine years old, 
he seemed, like blondes of a certain type, to be five 
or six years younger ; and this appearance of youth, 
whose freshness had faded under the toil and penury 
of exile, contrasting with the hard, stern face of his 
companion, might have led an observer io fanc}" that 
Nature had been mistaken when she bestowed their 
sexes. He rose from his seat and threw himself upon 
an old Louis XV. sofa covered in 3’ellow Utrecht velvet, 
seeming to wish for rest. The old maid took a Reine- 
Claude plum and gently offered it to him. 

“ Thank j'ou,” he said, taking the fruit. 

“Are 3'OU tired?” she asked, giving him another. 

“ Not tired with work, but tired of life,” he answered. 

“ What an idea ! ” she exclaimed sharply. “ Have n’t 
3’ou a guardian angel watching over 3’ou ? ” she added, 
as she gave him the sweetmeats and watched while he 
ate them. “ You see I thought of 3’ou this evening.” 

“I know,” he replied, with a look that was half- 
caressing, half-plaintive, “ that without 3’ou I should 
never have lived to this day ; but, my dear mademoi- 
selle, artists need some excitement of mind — ” 

“ Ah, there we have it ! ” she cried, interrupting him 
as she put her hands on her hips and fixed her hashing 
eyes on his face. “ You want to go and lose 3’our 
health in wicked places, like so many other workmen 
who end by d3dng in a hospital ! No, no ; make 3’Our 
fortune first, and when 3"Ou have plenty of mone3^ in 


80 


Cousin Bette, 


the Funds 3’ou can amuse 3’ourself, my lad ! Then 
you will have the wherewithal to pay for doctors and 
pleasure both, you 3"oung libertine ! ” 

On receiving this broadside, accompanied with a 
glance which sent a magnetic fluid through his being, 
Wenceslas Stcinbock bowed his head. If the most 
conflrmed and venomous tattler had seen this open- 
ing of their interview he would have owned the falsity’’ 
of the scandal told b}’ the Oliviers to the Marneflfes 
apropos of Mademoiselle Fischer. Everything in the 
personal relation of the pair, their tones, gestures, and 
glances, proved the purity of their intercourse. The 
old maid displayed the tenderness of a rough but real 
motherhood. The 3’oung man submitted, like a respect- 
ful son, to maternal t3Tann3\ This odd alliance seemed 
the result of a powerful will acting incessantl3' on a 
weak nature, on that peculiar Slav indifference which, 
while it bestows heroic courage on a battle-field, gives 
the race a strange fitfulness of conduct, a moral incon- 
sistency and laxit3’, the causes of which should be 
studied b3" ph3’siologists, who are to the science of pol- 
itics what entomologists are to agriculture. 

“ What if I die before I am rich? ” asked Wenceslas, 
sadly. 

“Die!” cried the spinster; “oh, I sha’n’t let you 
die. I have life enough for two ; 1 ’ll infuse some of 
m3^ blood into you, if necessar3'.” 

As he heard her vehement and impulsive exclamation 
the tears came into Steinbock’s e3’es. 

“Don’t be sad, my little Wenceslas,” said Lisbeth, 
much moved. “Let me tell 3’ou something, — m3" 
cousin Hortense thought your seal very pretty. You ’ll 


Cousin Bette. 


81 


see, I ’ll help 3’ou to sell that bronze group of j’ours, and 
you can pay me and do as you like and be a free man ! 
Come, laugh ! ” 

“ I can never repay j^ou, mademoiselle,” said the 
poor fellow. 

“Why not?” asked the Vosges peasant- woman, 
taking her protege's part against herself. 

“ Because you have not only fed and lodged and 
saved me from miseiy, but 3’ou have given me life ; jou 
have created me such as I am ; you have often been 
harsh, 3’ou have made me suffer — ” 

“ I ! ” exclaimed the old maid. “ Now, don’t begin 
3’our nonsense about poetry and art, and don’t crack 
3'our fingers and stretch 3’our arms, declaiming about 
the ideal and all your Northern stuflT. The ideal can’t 
hold a candle to the real, and the real is — I ! You 
think you have ideas in your brain? well, what good 
are the3’? I, too, have ideas. What’s the good of 
having things in 3’our soul or your brain if 3'ou can’t 
make any use of them ? People who have ideas never 
get on in this world as well as those who have none, 
provided they bestir themselves. Instead of thinking 
about your fancies 3’ou ought to work. What have 
3'ou done since I went out?” 

“ What did 3’our pretty cousin say ? ” 

“ Who told 3-011 she was pretty?” demanded Bette, 
in a tone irate with tigerish jealous3\ 

“ Wh3' , y-ou did.” 

“ Yes, just to see how 3-ou would take it! So you 
want to be running after petticoats, do 3’ou? If 3-ou 
are fond of women, go and make them out of brass, 
for 3"Ou can’t have any^ other loves for some time to 

6 


82 


Cousin Bette. 


come — specially not my cousin, my young friend ! she 
is not game for your gun. Such a girl as that must 
have a man with sixty thousand francs a year — in 
fact, they have got him — Goodness ! there your bed 
not made ! ” she exclaimed, looking through the door 
of the adjoining room ; “ poor fellow ! how I have neg- 
lected you ! ’’ 

And the vigorous creature pulled off her mantle, bon- 
net, and gloves, and set to work like a servant to make 
the humble little bed of the artist. This mixture of 
rough, even rude treatment with flashes of kindness 
may explain the empire which Lisbeth wielded over a 
man whom she held to be a thing of her own. Does 
not life control us by its alternations of good and evil ? 
If Wenceslas had encountered Madame Marnefle in- 
stead of Lisbeth Fischer, he would have found an in- 
dulgent and complying protectress, who would have led 
him into miry and dishonorable ways, where he would 
soon have lost himself Assuredly he would never have 
worked, and the artist soul within him would never 
have burst forth. Therefore, while he fretted against 
the harsh exactions of the old maid, his reason told him 
to prefer the iron arm that held him in a vise to the 
idle and perilous existence which several of his com- 
patriots were leading. 

Here follows an account of the circumstance to which 
was owing this curious marriage of female energy and 
masculine weakness, — a species of contradiction which 
is rather frequent, they say, in Poland. 


CouBin Bette, 


83 


CHAPTER YII. 

THE STORY OF A SPIDER WITH TOO BIG A FLY IN 
HER NET. 

In 1833 Mademoiselle Fischer, who sometimes worked 
at night when she had a great deal on hand to do, no- 
ticed, about one o’clock in the morning, a strong smell 
of carbonic acid, and heard what seemed to be the 
groans of a dying person. The fumes of gas and the 
sounds came from the attic above the two rooms in 
which she lodged, and she concluded that a young man 
who had lately hired the garret, which had been un- 
occupied for the last three years, was committing sui- 
cide. She ran up quickly, burst in the door bj- her 
Lorraine strength applied as a ram, and found the 
lodger rolling on his flock-bed in the agonies of death. 
She extinguished the brazier, the air rushed in from the 
open door, and the man’s life was saved ; then, when 
Lisbeth had put him to bed like a patient, and he had 
fallen naturall}" to sleep, she discovered the cause of 
his would-be suicide in the absolute nakedness of the 
two garret rooms, where there was literally nothing but 
a wretched table, a flock-bed, and two chairs. 

On the table lay a paper with the following writing, 
which she read : — 


84 


Cousin Bette. 


I am Comte Wenceslas Steinbock, born at Prelie in 
Livonia. 

No one is to blame for my death; the reasons for my 
suicide are in the words of Kosciusko, Finis Polonice. 

The great-nephew of Charles the Twelfth’s brave general 
cannot beg his bread. My feeble health forbade my entering 
the army, and I came yesterday to the last of the hundred 
dollars which 1 brought from Dresden. I leave twenty-five 
francs in the drawer of this table to pay the rent now due 
to my landlord. 

Having no relations, my death is of interest to no one. I 
beg my fellow-countrymen not to charge it to the French 
government. I have not made myself known as a refugee; 
I have asked nothing; I have met no other exile; no one in 
Paris knows of my existence. 

I die in the Christian faith. May God forgive the last of 
the Steinbocks. 

, ' Wenceslas. 

Mademoiselle Fischer, deeply touched b}- the honesty 
of the dying man, opened the drawer and saw the pile 
of five-franc pieces. 

“Poor 3’oung man!” she exclaimed. “No one in 
all the world to care for him I ” 

She went back to her own room, fetched her work, and 
returned to the attic to watch beside the exile. His 
astonishment when he waked at seeing a woman near 
his pillow may be imagined ; he fancied he was still 
dreaming. While she sat beside him making shoulder- 
knots the old maid was inwardly pledging herself to 
protect the youth, whom she admired as he lay there 
sleeping. When the young count was full}" awake she 
reassured him, and questioned him as to what he could 
do to gain a livelihood. Wenceslas, after relating his 


Cousin Bette. 


85 


histoiy, added that he owed his situation as professor 
in a college to his acknowledged vocation for art ; that 
he had always felt within him an impulse toward sculp- 
ture ; but the length of time required for such studies 
seemed too great for a penniless man, and he was 
now too feeble in health to undertake the manual labor 
preparator}' to the art. All this was Greek to Lisbeth 
Fischer. She answered that Paris was full of oppor- 
tunities, and that a man willing to work could always 
make a living ; courageous folks, she said, would never 
perish if they had ar certain stock of patience. 

“ I am only a poor girl, — a peasant, — and yet I 
have managed to make myself independent,” she said 
in conclusion. “ Listen to me ; I have laid by a little 
mone}", and if you are really willing to work I will lend 
you, month b}" month, as much as you need to live 
upon, — but to live strictlj" ; no racketing, no dissipa- 
tions, mind 3’ou ! You can dine in Paris for twent}*- 
five sous a da}’, and I ’ll make your breakfast every day 
when I make my own. Moreover, I ’ll furnish your 
rooms and pay whatever it costs you to learn a trade. 
You can give me a receipt in due form for all the 
moneys I spend upon you, and when you are rich you 
will repay me. But if you. don’t work I shall consider 
that the bargain is off, and I shall abandon you.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried the poor fellow, still under the anguish 
of his struggle with death, “ exiles of all lands do well 
to yearn for Paris, as the souls in purgatory long for 
heaven. What a nation is France ! — where succor and 
generous souls are found even in a garret like this ! 
You shall be my all, my benefactress, and I will be your 
slave. Be my friend,” he continued, with one of these 


86 


Cousin Bette. 


caressing gestures common among Poles, which, rather 
unjustly, lay them open to the charge of servility. 

“I’m too jealous ; I should make 3"Ou verj^ unhappy ; 
but I ’ll willingly be a sort of comrade to you,” an- 
swered Lisbeth. 

“ Oh ! if 3^ou onlj" knew with what passion I pra^'ed 
for some being, were it even a t^Tant, with whom to 
have some intercourse, when I was struggling alone 
in the void of this great city,” said Wenceslas. “I 
even longed for Siberia, to which the Emperor would 
send me if I returned to my own countiy ! Yes, be my 
Providence ! I will work, I will be a better man than 
ever before, — though I never was a bad one.” 

“ Will 3’ou do all that I tell 3"ou to do?” she asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Well then, I adopt 3"Ou,” she cried, gayly. “Be- 
hold me with a son just risen from his coffin. We will 
begin at once ; I shall go and make my preparations. 
You are to dress j^ourselfj and come down and share 
my breakfast when I knock on the ceiling with the 
handle of my broom.” 

The next day Mademoiselle Fischer questioned all 
the manufacturers to whom she carried her work as to 
the business of sculpture. »B3" dint of asking, she suc- 
ceeded in discovering the establishment of Florent and 
Chanor, where fine bronzes and elegant silver services 
are cast and engraved. She took Steinbock to the place 
and introduced him as a sculptor’s apprentice, a term 
which seemed to him sufficientl3" odd. It appeared that 
the firm executed designs of the best artists, but allowed 
none to be copied. Plowever, the obstinate persistency 
of the old maid succeeded in getting her protege a place 


Cousin Bette. 


87 


as designer of decorations. Steinbock rapidly acquired 
the facult}’ and modelled new forms, a work for which 
he showed a vocation. Five months after serving out 
his apprenticeship he made the acquaintance of the 
famous Stidmann, chief sculptor of the Florent estab- 
lishment, who agreed to give him lessons. At the end 
of two years Wenceslas knew more of the business than 
his master ; but before the close of another half-3'ear 
the old maid’s savings, slowly amassed little b}’ little 
during sixteen 3"ears, were all spent. Two thousand five 
hundred francs in gold, a sum she had meant to invest 
in an annuit}", were now represented by what? — the 
note of hand of a Pole ! It thus happened that Lisbeth, 
at the time our stor\’ begins, was again toiling as she did 
in her youth to meet the costs of supporting her exile. 
When at last she realized that she had nothing in hand 
but a bit of paper instead of her gold, she lost her self- 
sufiicienc}^, and went off* to consult Monsieur Rivet, who 
for the last fifteen years had been the adviser and friend 
of his first and most capable workwoman. On learning 
of the affair. Monsieur and Madame Rivet scolded Lis- 
beth, declared her crazy, anathematized all exiles whose 
plots and conspiracies to recover nationality threatened 
the prosperity of commerce and the preservation of 
peace at any price, and they urged the old maid to 
obtain what is called in business security. 

“ The only security you can get from that fellow 
is his liberty,” said Monsieur Rivet (Monsieur Achille 
Rivet was a judge in one of the commercial courts) ; 
“and that’s no joke for a foreigner. A Frenchman 
stays five years in a debtor’s prison, and then he gets 
out, — without paying his debts, it is true, for nothing 


88 


Comin Bette. 


compels him but his conscience, which is sure not to 
trouble him ; but a foreigner never gets out of prison. 
Give me that note of hand ; endorse it over to my book- 
keeper ; he will get it protested, and sue you both. He 
will then get a warrant for your arrest for debt, and 
when these formalities are all complied with he will give 
3’ou a secret release. By taking this course j’our in- 
terests combine, and you hold a loaded pistol to your 
Pole’s head.” 

The old maid followed this advice, and told her pro- 
tege to feel no uneasiness about the legal process, as 
it was taken solely to give security to a money-lender 
who agreed to lend them a certain sum. This ingenious 
evasion was due to the inventive genius of the com- 
mercial judge. The guileless artist, confiding blindlj- in 
his benefactress, lit his pipe with the stamped papers ; 
for he smoked, like all men who have griefs or energies 
to lull. One fine day Monsieur Rivet showed Mademoi- 
selle Fischer a document, remarking : — 

“ Wenceslas Steinbock is in your power, bound hand 
and foot so securely that you can put him in Clichy for 
the rest of his life whenever 3’'Ou please.” 

That upright judge in the courts of commerce felt the 
inward satisfaction which must surely result from the 
consciousness of having done an evil good deed. Benefi- 
cence has so many ways of proceeding in Paris that this 
strange remark is to be taken as expressing one of its 
various actions. The Pole once caught in the meshes 
of commercial law, the next thing was to come down 
on him for paj'ment ; for the sensible Rivet considered 
the man a swindler. Honor, heart, and poetry were, 
according to him, the cloak of dishonesty in business. 


Cousin Bette. 


89 


Rivet went, in the interests, he said, of that poor Made- 
moiselle Fischer who had been fooled by a Pole, to 
the wealthy manufacturers b}" whom Steinbock was em- 
plo3^ed. It so happened that Stidmann — who, together 
with the remarkable artists in gold and silver work 
already’ named, had brought French art to a perfection 
which enabled it to compete with the Florentines and 
the renaissance — was in Chanor’s private office when 
the manufacturer of gold lace appeared, to make in- 
quiries about “a certain Steinbock, a Polish refugee.” 

“Whom are 30U calling ‘a certain Steinbock?’” 
cried Stidmann, sarcasticall}". “ You can’t surelj' mean 
a 3’oung Livonian who has been a pupil of mine ? Let 
me tell you, sir, that he is a great artist. People sa}' 
I think myself a devil in art. Well, that poor fellow, 
though he does n’t yet know his power, is a god of it.” 

‘ ‘ Ha ! though 3’ou speak rather cavalierly" to a man 
who has the honor to be a judge of the commercial 
courts — ” 

“ Your servant, consul,” retorted Stidmann, bringing 
his hand to his forehead in military salute. 

“ I am glad to hear what you say". So y"ou think 
that y’onng man can earn money?” 

“ Of course he can,” said old Chanor ; “ but he must 
work. He could have earned a good deal by this time 
if he had stay-ed with us. But the trouble is, artists 
have a horror of control.” 

“ They have a true sense of their own dignity- and 
value,” said Stidmann. “ I don’t blame Wenceslas for 
working alone and trying to make himself a name and 
a great career, — tliey are his due ; but it was a serious 
loss to me when he left me.” 


90 


Cousin Bette, 


“ AVell, well!” cried Rivet; “such are the preten- 
sions of young men just out of their college shell. But 
you had better begin by earning money, and look after 
glor^’ later.” 

“ It spoils the fingers to be picking up five-franc 
pieces,” retorted Stidmann. “ Fame will bring us 
money.” 

“There’s no help for it,” said Chanor to Rivet; 
“ they won’t be tied.” 

“ They break the halter if they are,” cried Stidmann. 

“ These gentlemen,” said Chanor, looking at Stid- 
mann, ‘ ‘ are as full of fancies as they are of talent. 
They are lavishly extravagant ; they run after mis- 
tresses ; they fiing their money about ; they have no 
time to work ; the}^ neglect their orders ; and the con- 
sequence is that we have to employ journeymen who 
can’t compare with them, but who grow rich : then 
the}^ complain of the hard times, — whereas, if they 
applied themselves to work the3^ would have heaps of 
mone}" — ” 

“ You remind me, old man,” said Stidmann, “ of that 
publisher, before the Revolution, who said : ‘ Ah ! if I 
could only keep Montesquieu, Voltaire, and Rousseau 
in m3’ loft without a penn}’ of their own, and put their 
breeches under lock and key, they ’d write me famous 
little books which would make m3’ fortune.’ Yes, if 
works of art could be cast like nails, 3’ou shopkeepers 
could make them. Give me my thousand francs, and 
hold 3’our tongue ! ” 

The worthy Rivet went home rejoicing over poor 
Mademoiselle Fischer, who dined at his house every 
Monday, and was there to greet him. 


Cousin Bette', 


91 


“If you can make him work,” he said, “you will 
have been more lucky than wise, and you will get 
back your money, capital and interest. That Pole has 
genius; he can earn a living; but lock up his boots 
and his trousers ; don’t let him go to the Chaumiere 
nor anywhere near Notre-Dame de Lorette ; hold a 
tight hand over him. If you don’t take care your 
sculptor will lounge awaj" his life. You know what 
artists mean hy Jldner. Well, that’s what he’ll do, — 
all sorts of horrors, I don’t know what. I ’ve just seen 
a thousand-franc note go in a day.” 

This episode had a terrible influence on the domestic 
life of Bette and Wenceslas. Henceforth the benefac- 
tress steeped the bread of the exile in the wormwood 
of reproaches whenever she thought her money in dan- 
ger of disappearing ; and she thought so often. The 
kind parent became a stepmother ; she scolded and 
harried the unfortunate son, blamed him for working 
too slowly, and for choosing so diflScult a profession ; 
she could not realize that the models in red wax, the 
figurines, the bits of decorations, and trial designs, 
were of the slightest value. Then^ again^ sorry for her 
sharpness, she tried to efface the recollection of it by 
little kindnesses and attentions. The poor 3'oung fel- 
low, shuddering from a sense of his dependence on a 
Megsera, languishing under the dominion of a peasant 
woman, was only too delighted to get the petting of 
a motherly solicitude won solely by the physical and 
material charm about him. He was like a woman who 
forgives the ill-usage of a week in return for the ca- 
resses of a momentary peace-making. Mademoiselle 
Fischer thus acquired absolute sway over the young 


92 


Cousin Bette. 


man’s spirit. The love of power latent^ in the soul 
of the old maid developed rapidly. She could satisfy 
her pride and her need of action ; for had she not a 
human being of her own, — one to order, scold, flatter, 
and make happy without the fear of rivalry ? The good 
and the evil of her character were equally brought out. 
If she sometimes tortured the poor artist, at other times 
she showed a delicac}" which had the grace of a wild 
flower. She delighted to see that he wanted for noth- 
ing ; she would willingly have given her life for his ; 
Wenceslas was sure of it. At the first word of kind- 
ness the poor fellow, like all noble natures, forgot the 
defects and the cruelties of his tyrant, — who had, more- 
over, told him the story of her life as an excuse for 
her savage temper, — and remembered only her bene- 
factions. 

One day, exasperated that Wenceslas had loitered 
away his time in the streets instead of working, Bette 
made him a scene. 

“You belong to me!” she said. “If 3’ou are an 
honest man 5'ou should try to return what 3’ou owe me 
as soon as possible.” 

The ^’oung nobleman, in whom the blood of the Stein- 
bocks began to rise, turned pale. 

“ Good God I ” she cried, “ before long we shall have 
nothing to live upon but the thirty sous a day which I 
earn, — I, a poor woman I ” 

The povert^^-stricken pair, excited b^^ the duel of 
words, grew more and more irritated with each other, 
until at last the poor artist reproached his benefactress 
for the first time, and asked her wh}’ she had saved him 
from death only to make him lead the life of a galley- 


Cousin Bette, 


93 


slave, -- worse, he said, than annihilation, where at least 
he could have peace ; and he threatened to escape. 

“Escape! run away!” she cried. “Ah, Monsieur 
Rivet was right ! ” 

And she explained, chapter and verse, how in less 
than twenty-four hours she could put him in prison for 
the rest of his days. The blow felled him. He sank 
into a gloomy revery and dead silence. The next night 
Lisbeth, suspecting another attempt at suicide, went up 
to the garret and offered her pensioner the legal papers 
and a receipt in full. 

“ Here, my poor lad, take them and forgive me ! ” she 
said, with moistened eyes. “Be happy; leave me. I 
torment j'ou ; but say that 3’ou will sometimes think of 
the poor girl who put 3’ou in the wa3’ to earn a living. 
You 3’ourself are the cause of all m3" evil tempers ! I 
could die ; but if I did, what would become of 3"ou? It 
is not for m3"self that I am so impatient for 3"ou to 
make things that are fit to sell. I don’t want mj" mone3* 
for m3’self, you may believe me! ButT’m afraid of 
3"Our idleness, which you call revery. I dread those 
fancies of 3’ours, on which 3'ou waste 3’our time gazing 
at the sky ; and I do want 3’ou to acquire the habit of 
labor.” 

This was said with tears and tone and glance and 
attitude that overcame the noble heart of the artist ; he 
caught his benefactress to his breast, and kissed her. 

“Keep those papers!” he cried, gayty. “Why 
should you put me in Clichy? Am I not imprisoned 
here in the bonds of gratitude ? ” 

This episode of their private life, which took place 
about six months earlier than the date of our stoiy, led 


94 


Cousin Bette. 


Wenceslas to produce three works of art : one was the 
seal which Hortense had kept ; another, the group in 
the antiquary's shop ; and the third, an admirable clock, 
which he was just finishing. 

This clock represented the Hours, charmingly em- 
bodied in twelve female figures, linked in a dance so 
wild and rapid that three Cupids, starting from a tangle 
of fruit and flowers, could only catch the torn fragment 
of a chlamys left by the Hour of midnight in the grasp of ' 
the boldest of the Loves. The group rested on a round 
support, finely decorated with fantastic, writhing crea- 
tures. The timepiece was held in a monstrous mouth, 
opened by a yawn. Each Hour carried a symbol, de- 
lightfully imagined as characterizing her .special occu- 
pation. 

It is now easy to explain the nature of the extraor- 
dinary attachment which Mademoiselle Fischer had con- 
ceived for her Pole. She wished him happy, but ishe 
saw him fading and perishing da}’ by day in his gar^ 
ret. The secret springs of this terrible situation are 
not hard to understand. The Southern peasant woman 
Tvatched this son of the North with the tenderness of a 
mother, the jealousy of a woman, and the keenness of 
a dragon. She managed to debar him from every pos- 
sible dissipation or excess by depriving him of money. 
Her intention was to keep her victim and companion to 
herself, virtuous by the force of her own will ; and she 
was unable to understand the barbarity of this mad 
desire, for she was accustomed m her own person to 
every form of habitual privation. She loved Steinbock 
well enough not to marry him, and too well to yield 
him to another woman ; she could not resign herself to 


Cousin Bette. 


95 


be no more to him than a mother, and yet she saw the 
folly of even thinking of another love. These contra- 
dictions, her ferocious jealousy, her joy in the posses- 
sion of a man of her own, kept her in a state of per- 
petual agitation. Deepl}" in love for the last four years, 
she clung to the mad hope of continuing indefinitely 
this abortive and inconsistent way of life, though such 
dogged persistency could onl^^ be the ruin of the man 
she called her son. This struggle between her instincts 
and her common-sense made her unjust and tyrannical. 
She revenged herself on the young man for her lack of 
youth and beauty and wealth ; and then, after each ex- 
hibition of vengeance, she admitted in her heart that 
she was to blame, and humbled herself with infinite ten- 
derness to his service. But such sacrifices to her idol 
never entered her mind until after she had written her 
power upon him as with a knife. It was Shakspeare’s 
Tempest reversed, — Caliban master of Ariel and of 
Prospero. As to the unhappy youth of noble thought, 
meditative nature, and a disposition to laziness, he 
showed in his eyes, like the caged lions in the Jardin 
des Plantes, the arid desert which his protectress was 
making of his soul. The hard labor she exacted of him 
could not fill the needs of his being. His weariness of 
spirit became a physical malady ; he was d^dng of it, 
without being able to obtain the means or the opportu- 
nity for the pleasure and the distraction that he needed. 
On certain days of vigorous impulse, when a more than 
usual sense of his miser}' increased his exasperation, he 
looked at Bette as a thirsty traveller crossing the desert 
looks at a pool of brackish water. These Dead Sea 
fruits of poverty and isolation in the midst of the great 


96 


Comin Bette. 


city were sweet to the taste of Lisbeth Fischer. She 
foresaw with terror that the first approach of passion 
would deprive her of her slave. Sometimes, when she 
saw that she had given him the means to do without 
her, she regretted that her tyranny and her reproaches 
had driven the poet to become a great sculptor of little 
things. 

The day after this opening of our stor}", the three 
households we have now described, all so diverselj' and 
yet so truly wretched, — that of the mother in her de- 
spair, that of the Marneffes, and that of the hapless 
exile, — were each to be afiected by an artless passion 
on the part of Hortense, and by the strange termination 
which the baron was about to give to his unfortunate 
love for Jos^pha. 


/ 


Cousin Bette, 


97 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ROMANCE OF THE FATHER AND THAT OF THE DAUGHTER. 

As Baron Hulot cVErvy approached the Opera-house 
he was struck by the gloomy aspect of the temple of 
the rue Lepelletier, where neither gendarmes nor lights 
nor attendants nor the usual queue of people were to 
be seen. He looked at the posters and there beheld a 
white strip on which appeared the sacramental words, 
“ No performance, on account of indisposition.” 

He rushed at once to Josepha, who lived, like all 
other opera-singers, in the environs of Paris, rue 
Cauchat. 

“Monsieur! wh}^ are 3’ou here?” asked the porter, 
to the baron’s great astonishment. 

“Don’t 3’ou know me?” he asked, anxiousl3". 

“Yes, it is precisel3^ because I do know monsieur 
that I ask why he is here.” 

A deathly shudder seized the baron. 

“ What has happened?” he asked. 

“ If Monsieur le baron goes up to Mademoiselle 
Mirah’s apartment he will find no one but Mademoiselle 
Heloise Brisetout, Monsieur Bixiou, Monsieur Leon de 
Lora, Monsieur Lousteau, Monsieur de Vernisset, Mon- 
sieur Stidmann, and a lot of women smelling of patch- 
ouli, who are making a night of it.” 

“ Yes, but where is — ” 


7 


98 


Coxmn Bette. 


‘ ‘ Mademoiselle Mirali ? — I don’t know that I ought 
to tell you.” 

The baron slipped ten francs into the man’s hand. 

“ Well, she has gone to live in the rue de la Ville- 
I’Eveque, in a house given to her, so they say, by the 
Due d’Herouville,” whispered the porter. 

After asking the number of the house the baron took 
a milord and drove to one of those pretty modern resi- 
dences with double doors, where, from the very gas- 
lamp on the threshold, luxury predominated. 

The baron, dressed in his usual blue cloth, with white 
cravat and waistcoat, nankeen trousers, varnished boots, 
and plent}^ of starch in his shirt-frill, seemed to the e3’es 
of the porter of this second Eden a tard}' guest. His 
imposing step and bearing justified that opinion. 

When the porter rang the bell a footman appeared on 
the portico of the house. The latter, new to the place 
like the porter himself, allowed the baron to enter, and 
received the card which the latter gave him saying, 
with imperious tone and gesture, 

“ Take that card to Mademoiselle Josepha.” 

The victim looked mechanicall}’ round the salon in 
which he found himself, — a reception-room filled with 
rare plants, the furniture of which must have cost many 
thousand francs. The footman, re-entering, begged 
Monsieur le baron to come into the drawing-room and 
wait until the company left the dinner-table. 

The baron was well accustomed to the luxuiy of the 
empire, which was certainly amazing, — for though its 
fashions and productions were not likely to last they 
were none the less madly expensive, — 3^et even he was 
dazzled and dumbfounded when he entered the salon. 


Cousin Bette. 


99 


whose three windows opened on a fairy-like garden, 
one of those gardens made in a month with artificial 
soil and transplanted flowers, whose grass-plats seem 
the result of some chemical process. He not onl}’ ad- 
mired the choice elegance of the decorations, of the 
carvings done in the most costly fashion of the style 
called Pompadour, the gildings, and the marvellous 
fabrics, which, after all, the first grocer who had made 
his fortune could order and obtain with monej*, but he 
appreciated still more the treasures of art which princes 
alone have the faculty to find, to choose, to purchase, 
and bestow : two pictures by Greuze, two of Watteau, 
two heads b}" Van Dyke, two landscapes bj" Ruysdael, 
two by Guaspre, a Rembrandt, a Holbein, a Murillo 
and a Titian, two Teniers, a Metzu, a Van Hujsum, 
and an Abraham Mignon, — in short, a collection of 
paintings worth two hundred thousand francs, all ad- 
mirably framed. The settings were almost as costlj’ a^ 
the pictures. 

“Ah! you understand it now, old fellow!” said 
Josepha. 

Coming in on tiptoe through a noiseless door and 
across a thick Persian rug, she caught her lover in that 
state of blank stupefaction when the ears pulsate and 
ring, and nought is heard but the knell of disaster. 

The words “ old fellow,” addressed to a man of such 
importance in the government, and well suited to show 
the audacity with which such creatures flout the high- 
est authorit3’, nailed the baron to the spot. Josepha, 
arrayed in white and yellow, was so bejewelled for the 
fete that she shone amid the surrounding luxury like 
the rarest gem of all. 

LofO. 


100 


Cousin Bette. 


‘‘Isn’t it beautiful?” she continued. “The duke 
has spent all his dividends from a certain joint stock 
company upon this room. He ’s no fool, my little duke ! 
It is only the lords of the olden time who know how to 
turn coal into gold. Before dinner his notary brought 
me the deed of the house and a receipt for the purchase- 
monej'. A lot of distinguished men are in there, — 
d’Esgrignon, Rastignac, Maxime, Lenoncourt, Verneuil, 
Laginski, Rochefide, La Palferine ; and as for bankers, 
there^ Nucingen and du Tillet, with Antonia, Malaga, 
Carabine, and la Schontz. They all pity 3’our ill-luck. 
Yes, m}^ old man, 3*ou are invited to join them, but on 
condition that 3’ou immediatel}" drink down the total 
of two bottles of champagne, sherr}-, and Hungarian 
wine so as to get up to their level at once. We are 
all so tight that there could n’t be an}’ performance 
at the opera. M}’ director is in there, as drunk as a 
fiddler — ” 

“Oh, Josepha ! ” cried the baron. 

“Come, don’t let’s have a stupid explanation,” she 
cried, laughing. “ Are you worth the six hundred 
thousand francs of this house and furniture? Can 
you give me a share in the Funds which brings in 
thirty thousand francs a 3’ear, such as the duke gave 
me this morning in a bag of sugar-plums? — pretty 
idea, wasn’t it?” 

“ What depravity ! ” said the statesman, who at that 
moment would gladly have given his wife’s diamonds to 
oust the Due d’Herouville for twent^’-four hours. 

“It’s my nature,” she replied. “So this is how 
you are going to take it? Why don’t you get up stock 
companies? Good gracious! you ought to thank me, 


Cousin Bette, 


101 


m}’ poor old dyed cat ; I leave you just in time to pre- 
vent you from squandering 3’our v^hole property, your 
daughter’s dot,^ and — ah, \vhat? you’re crying! The 
empire is over ! I bow to the new reign.” 

She struck an attitude, declaiming, “ ‘They call you 
Hulot, but I know you not,’ ” and left the room. 

As the door opened to let her pass, a blaze of light 
flashed out with the culminating noises of the orgy and 
the odors of a regal feast. 

The Jewess looked back from the doorway and seeing 
Hulot rooted to the spot as if he were made of stone, 
she returned into the room and said : — 

“ Monsieur, I have made over the rubbish in the rue 
Cauchat to that little Heloise Brisetout and her Bixiou. 
If 3"ou want your night-cap, 3’our corsets, 3"our bootjack, 
and the wax for 3’our moustache, send to Heloise ; I 
stipulated that 3'ou were to have them.” 

This odious taunt sent the baron from the room, like 
Lot from Gomorrah, without looking round like the 
wife. He went home rapidly, talking to himself as 
though he were craz3^ and found the famil3" just as he 
had left them, calml3^ playing whist. When Adeline 
saw her husband she was certain some horrible disas- 
ter had happened, — possibh" something dishonorable. 
Giving her cards to Hortense she Ted Hector into the 
same little salon where, a few hours earlier, Crevel had 
predicted the shameful results of their povert3\ 

“ What is the matter?” she asked. 

“Oh, Adeline, forgive me I Let me tell 3'ou the 
infamous thing ! ” — and for ten minutes he gave loose 
to his anger. 

“ But, my friend,” said the poor woman, heroically. 


102 Cousin Bette, 

“such women know nothing of love, — of the pure, 
devoted love which 3’ou deserve. How can 3’ou — 3'ou 
who are so clear-sighted — expect to succeed against a 
million ? ” 

“Dear Adeline!” cried the baron, seizing his wife 
and pressing her to his heart. 

The baroness had shed a balm upon the bleeding 
wounds of his self-love. 

“ Certainl3’, if the Due d’Herouville were deprived 
of his mone3^ she could n’t hesitate between us,” he 
remarked. 

“ M3^ friend,” said Adeline, making a last effort, “ if 
3^ou must have mistresses, why not take them, like 
Crevel, from women of a class who do not cost mone3% 
and are satisfied with ver3" little? It would be so much 
better for 3’our famil3\ I can conceive of your ne- 
cessit3", but I do not understand these wounds to 3’our 
self-love.” 

“ Dear, good woman that 3’ou are ! ” he cried. “ I 
am an old fool ! I don’t deserve such an angel.” 

“ I am the Josephine of my Napoleon ! ” she said, 
with a tinge of sadness. 

“Josephine was not 3^our equal,” he said. “ Come, 
I ’ll go and play whist with m3" brother and children. 
I must take up m3" (tut3" as the father of a famil3", marry 
Hortense, and cease to pla3" the libertine.” 

His placable good-nature touched poor Adeline so 
much that she said: “That creature has shocking 
taste to prefer an3" man, no matter who, to my Hector ! 
Ah ! I could never leave you for all the gold in the 
land ! How could I when I have had the happiness of 
being loved by 3"ou ? ” 


Cousin Bette, 


103 


The look with which the baron rewarded his wife's de- 
votion confirmed her in the belief that gentleness and 
submission were a wife’s best weapons. She deceived 
herself. Noble sentiments pushed to an extreme pro- 
duce results similar to those of great vices. Bonaparte 
became emperor because he shot down the populace ten 
feet from the place where Louis XVI. lost bis headland 
the monarchy for not shedding the blood of a Monsieur 
Sauce. 

On the morrow Hortense, who had put the seal un- 
der her pillow so as not to be separated from it during 
the night, dressed early, and asked her father to come 
into the garden as soon as he was up. 

About half-past nine the baron, condescending to his 
daughter’s request, gave her his arm, and together they 
walked along the quays b}" the pont Royal to the place 
du Carrousel. 

“Let us walk as if we were lounging, papa,” said 
Hortense, as the}- passed through the ii’on gate of the 
vast open space. 

“ Lounging here ! ” cried her father, laughing. 

“We shall be thought to be going to the Museum ; 
and down there,” she added, pointing to the wooden 
shops built against the walls of the houses which stand 
at a right angle to the rue du Do3^nn4, “ are a number 
of bric-a-brac shops and picture-dealers.” 

“ Your cousin Bette lives over there.” 

“ I know that ; but I don’t want her to see us.” 

“ What are you aiming for?” said the baron, suddenly 
aw^are that he was within thirty feet of the window where 
he had seen Madame Marneffe. 

Hortense led her father to the front of a shop stand- 


104 


Cousin Bette. 


ing at the angle of the cluster of houses, and just oppo- 
site to the Hotel de Nantes. She then entered the shop 
itself, leaving her father employed in looking up at the 
windows of the pretty little woman who, as if to soothe 
the coming wound, had taken the old fop’s fancy the 
night before. He could not help thinking of his wife’s 
advice. 

“ I might fall back on a little bourgeoise,” he said 
to himself, as he remembered the charms of Madame 
Marnefte. “That little woman might make me forget 
the grasping Josepha.” 

The following scenes now occurred outside and in- 
side of the shop. 

The baron, looking up at the windows of his new 
fancy, saw the husband brushing his overcoat himself, 
evidently on the watch, as though he expected to see 
some one in the street. Fearing to be seen and recog- 
nized, the baron turned his back to the rue du T)ojenne, 
but still in a way to cast a glance over his shoulder 
from time to time. This action brought him almost face 
to face with Madame Marneffe, who, coming from the 
direction of the quays, turned the corner of the build- 
ing to reach her own door. Valerie felt a commotion 
within her when she met the baron’s surprised glance, 
to which she replied with a prudish look. 

“ Pretty creature ! ” exclaimed the baron, “for whom 
one might commit a dozen follies.” 

“ Ah, monsieur ! ” she answered, turning towards him 
like a woman who decides upon a sudden action, “you 
are Monsieur le Baron Hulot, are you not? ” 

The baron, more and more surprised, made a sign in 
the affirmative. 


Cousin Bette, 


105 


“Well, since chance has twice brought our e^^es to- 
gether, and I have the happiness to excite your curios- 
ity, or to interest j^ou, I will tell 3^ou that instead of 
committing follies for me you ought rather to do us 
justice. husband’s fate depends on 3^ou ! ” 

“ How so? ” said the baron, gallantl3\ 

“ He is a clerk of 3’our department at the war-office, 
in the section of. Monsieur Lebrun, and in the office of 
Monsieur Coquet,” she replied, smiling. 

“ I am read3", Madame — Madame — ” 

“ Madame Marneffe.” 

“ I am ver3^ read3% my dear Madame Marneffe, to do 
any justice or injustice for the sake of 3’our prett3’ 03^03. 
M3" cousin lives in your house ; I ’ll go and see her one 
of these da3"s, — in fact, as soon as possible, — and then 
3’ou can bring me 3"our request.” 

“ Forgive m3" boldness. Monsieur le baron ; but 3"ou 
will understand why I have dared to address 3"Ou when 
I say that I am unprotected.” 

“Ha!” 

“ You misunderstand me, monsieur ! ” she said, low- 
ering her e3’es. 

The baron thought the sun was disappearing. 

“ I am in the depths of despair ; but I am an honest 
woman,” she continued. “ I lost my onl3" protector six 
months ago, the Marechal Montcornet.” 

“Are 3"ou his daughter?” 

“ Yes, monsieur ; but he never acknowledged me.” 

“ So as to leave 3"Ou part of Iiis property?” 

“ He left me nothing ; no will was found.” 

“ Poor little woman ! I remember the marechal died 
suddenl3" of apoplexy. Well, we must hope, madame. 


106 


Cousin Bette, 


that something can be done for the daughter of one of 
the Baj’ards of the empire.” 

Madame Marneffe bowed gracefully, as proud of her 
success as the baron was of his. 

“Where the devil has she been this morning,” thought 
Hulot, as he anal3"zed the undulating movement of the 
dress to which she imparted a grace that was perhaps 
slightly exaggerated. “ Her face is so tired that she 
can’t have been bathing ; and there ’s her husband watch- 
ing for her. It is puzzling, and needs thinking over.” 

As soon as Madame Marneffe had entered the house 
it occurred to the baron to wonder what his daughter 
was doing in the shop. Entering the doorway, but still 
glancing towards Madame Marneffe’s windows, he ran 
against a 3"oung man with a pale brow and sparkling 
gray e^^es, dressed in a summer overcoat of black merino, 
trousers of coarse linen, and shoes covered with yellow 
leather gaiters, who was dashing out like one possessed. 
Looking after him, the baron noticed that he entered 
the house of Madame Marneffe. 

Hortense, when she glided into the shop, had in- 
stantly seen the famous bronze of which she was in 
search, standing on a table in the centre of the room on 
a line with the door. Even without the circumstances 
under which she had heard of it, this rare production 
would assuredly have attracted the 3’oung girl by what 
we must call the brio of great works, for she herself 
might have been taken in Italy for an embodiment of 
Brio"' 

All works of genius have not, in a like degree, this 
fire, this splendor of life, instantly visible to all ej^es, 
even those of the ignorant. Certain pictures of Raphael, 


Cousin Bette, 


lOT 


such as the celebrated Transfiguration, the Madonna of 
Foligno, the frescos in the Stanze of the Vatican, do 
not command the same instant admiration as the Violin 
Pla3’er in the Sciarra galleiy, the portraits of the Doni, 
and the Vision of Ezekiel at the Pitti, the Bearing of 
the Cross in the Borghese collection, and the Marriage 
of the Virgin in the Brera museum at Milan. The pict- 
ures of St. John the Baptist in the tribune, of St. Luke 
painting the Virgin, in the Academy of Rome, have not 
the charm of the portrait of Leo X. and the Dresden 
Madonna. Yet all are equally wonderful. More than 
that, the frescos of the Stanze, the Transfiguration, the 
Gems, and the three easel pictures of the Vatican, are 
the highest expression of sublime perfection. But these 
masterpieces require, from even the most cultivated ad- 
mirer, a strained attention and careful stud}^ before they 
are understood in all their parts ; while, on the contrarj^ 
the Violinist, the Vision of Ezekiel, and the Marriage 
of the Virgin take immediate possession of the heart 
through the double door of the e3'es ; we delight in 
them without effort ; the3" are not the climax of art, but 
they are its happiness. This fact proves that the same 
congenital uncertainties attend the generation of works 
of art as ma3" be seen in families where children fortu- 
nately gifted are born beautiful and cause no suffering 
to their mothers, — all things smile upon them, and for 
them all succeeds ; in short, there are flowers of genius 
as well as flowers of love. 

JBrio^ that untranslatable Italian word now coming 
into use among us, expresses the spirit of the earliest 
work, the fruit of the impetuous and daring fire of 
youthful genius ; an impetuosit3^ sometimes recovered 


108 


Cousin Bette. 


in after hours of happy toil, but then its h'io no longer 
comes from the heart of the artist ; instead of flinging 
it forth from his own bosom as a volcano belches Are, 
he owes its inspiration to circumstances, to love, to 
rivalry, often to hatred, oftener still to the necessity of 
maintaining his fame. 

Wenceslas’s little group was to the exile’s coming 
work what the Marriage of the Virgin is to the com- 
pleted whole of Raphael’s paintings, namel}", the flrst 
step of genius, — made with inimitable grace, with the 
eager buoyancy of childhood and its abounding jo^’ous- 
ness, with its hidden power, hidden beneath the white 
and ros3" flesh w'hose dimples are, as it were, the echoes 
of a mother’s smile. It is said that Prince Eugene paid 
four hundred thousand francs for that picture, which 
would be worth a million to a nation which owned no 
Raphaels ; yet no one would give that sum for the finest 
of the frescos, whose value, nevertheless, is higher to 
art. 

Hortense, with due thought for the limited resources 
of her girlish purse, restrained her admiration and as- 
sumed a little air of indifference as she asked the price 
of the group. 

“ Fifteen hundred francs,” answered the dealer, cast- 
ing a glance at a 3’oung man sitting on a stool in a 
corner of the shop. The latter became stupid with 
admiration on beholding the living masterpiece of Baron 
Hulot. Hortense, thus informed of his presence, recog- 
nized the artist by the color which suddenly flushed a 
face made pallid by suffering ; she saw the gray eyes 
sparkle as she asked her question; she looked in the 
thin, drawn face, like that of a monk sunken in asceti- 


Cousin Bette, 


109 


cism, and she adored the well-cut rosy lips, the delicate 
chin, the abundant cheslnut hair worn in locks after the 
fashion of the Slavs. 

“If it were only twelve hundred francs,” she said, 
“ I should tell you to send it home.” 

• “ It is an antique, mademoiselle,” replied the dealer, 
who, like the rest of his fraternity, thought the term ex- 
pressed the ne plus ultra of bric-a-brac. 

“ Pardon me, monsieur, it was made this very year,” 
she replied, quietly ; “ and I have come here expressly to 
ask that, in case you agree to my price, you will send 
the artist to see us ; we may be able to procure some 
important commissions for him.” 

“ If the twelve hundred francs go to him what will 
there be for me ? I ’m a dealer, you know,” said the 
man, good-naturedly. 

“ Ah, true ! ” uttered the young lady, in a slight tone 
of contempt. 

“Mademoiselle, take it! I will arrange with the 
dealer,” cried Wenceslas, beside himself with delight. 

Fascinated by her glorious beauty and the love of 
art which was manifest within her, he added : — 

“lam the maker of that group; for the last ten 
days I have come here three times a day to see if any 
one would recognize its merits and offer to buy it. 
You are my first admirer ; take it ! ” 

“ Come to my house, monsieur, an hour hence with 
the dealer; here is my father’s card,” Teplied Hortense. 

Then as the dealer went into another room to wrap 
the group in a linen cloth, she added in a low voice, 
to the great astonishment of the artist, who began 
to think he was dreaming : “ For the sake of j’our 


110 


Cousin Bette, 


future interests, Monsieur Wenceslas, do not show that 
card to any one ; do not tell the name of your purchaser 
to Mademoiselle Fischer, — she is our cousin.” 

The words “ our cousin ” sent a blinding flash of light 
into the mind of the artist ; he saw the gates of Para- 
dise, and Eve within them. He had dreamed of Lis- 
beth^s beautiful cousin, just as Hortense had dreamed 
of her cousin’s lover, and when the young girl entered 
the shop the thought had occurred to him, “ Would 
she were like her!” We can fancy the glance they 
now exchanged ; it flamed, — for innocent love has no 
hypocrisy. 

“Well, what are j’ou about in here?” asked her 
father as he entered, after encountering the flying 
artist. 

“ I have spent all my savings, twelve hundred francs ; 
come ! ” 

She took her father’s arm as he repeated her words, 
“ Twelve hundred francs ! ” 

“Thirteen hundred in fact; but jou must lend me 
the difference.” 

“And how — in such a shop — could you possibly 
spend all that?” 

“ Ah ! ” said the girl in a happy voice, “ but if I 
have found a husband it is not too dear.” 

“ A husband ! in this shop?” 

“ Papa, dear I you would n’t object to my marrying a 
great artist ? ” 

“ No, certainly not. A great artist in these days is 
a prince without a title. He represents fame and for- 
tune, the greatest social advantages — after virtue,” 
he added in a pious tone. 


Cousin Bette, 111 

“Of course,” assented Hortense. “What do 3 ’ou 
think of sculpture?” 

“A bad business,” said Hulot, shaking his 

head. “It needs immense influence over and above 
genius ; for government is really the only purchaser. 
It is an art without openings ; in these days there are 
no great lords, no great fortunes, no entailed property”, 
no eldest sons. The best of us have onl}^ houseroom 
for little pictures and little groups — in fact, the arts 
are in danger of becoming little'^ 

“ What if a great artist were to make his own open- 
ings ? ” urged Hortense. 

“ That would solve the difficulty.” 

‘ ‘ Suppose he obtained influence ? ” 

“ Better still.” 

“ And was born noble? ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

‘ ‘ A count.” 

“What, a sculptor?” 

“ He has no monej".” 

“ And he seeks that of Mademoiselle Hortense 
Hulot?” said her father, teasing her, but darting an 
inquisitorial look into her eyes. 

“ This great artist, count, and sculptor has just 
seen-j’our daughter for the flrst time in his life, and 
for only five minutes, monsieur le baron,” said Hor- 
tense, coolly. “Now, listen, my dear little papa — 
3 ’esterday, while j'ou were at the Chamber, mamma 
fainted awa}’. She said it was a nervous attack, but 
I know it came from some disappointment about my 
marriage ; for she told me that in order to get me off 
3 ’our hands — ” 


112 


Cousin Bette, 


“I am quite sure she never used any such ex- 
pression.” 

“It isn’t parliamentary,” said Hortense, laughing; 
“ no, she did not say that ; but I know that a daughter 
who ought to be married and is n’t married is a heavy 
burden for kind, good parents to bear. Well, she 
thinks that if some man of talent and energy could be 
found who would be satisfied with a dot of thirty thou- 
sand francs we might all be happy. In fact, she has 
been trying to prepare me for the humbleness of my 
future lot, and to keep me from forming great expecta- 
tions ; that means that I have no dot and the marriage 
is broken off.” 

“ Your mother is a good and noble woman,” said the 
father, deepl}’ humiliated, j’et jjleased by his daughter’s 
confidence, and thankful to have obtained it. 

“ Yesterday,” continued Hortense, “ she told me 
that you had allowed her to sell her diamonds for the 
purpose of marrying me ; but I prefer that she should 
keep them, and that I should myself find a husband. 
Do 3’ou know, I think I have found the very man 
who answers to mamma’s requirements.” 

‘ ‘ What, there ! in the place du Carrousel ! in one 
morning?” exclaimed her father. 

“Oh, papa, the roots of the evil run further back,” 
she said significantly. 

“Well, my little girl, tell it all to your old papa,” 
he said in a coaxing tone, trjdng to hide his uneasiness. 


Cousin Bette. 


113 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH CHANCE, CONSTRUCTING A ROMANCE, CARRIES 
MATTERS ALONG SO SMOOTHLY THAT THE SMOOTHNESS 
CANNOT LAST. 

Under promise of absolute secrecy, Hortense told 
her father the purport of her conversations with Bette. 
When they reached home she showed him the famous 
seal in proof of her own sagacity. The baron in his 
inward soul admired the wonderful cleverness of young 
girls stirred b}^ instinct, when he perceived the excel- 
lence of the plan which an imaginaiy love had suggested 
in a single night to his innocent daughter. 

“ You shall see the masterpiece which I have just 
purchased,” she said. “ They are to bring it at once 
and Wenceslas is coming with it. The artist of such a 
group must inevitably make his fortune ; but I want 
you to use your influence and get him an order for a 
statue, and a place in the Institute.” 

“ What next?” cried her father. “ If I don’t take 
care j^ou will be married as soon as the banns can be 
published — in eleven days ! ” 

“ Must we wait eleven days?” she answered, laugh- 
ing. “ Wh3% in five minutes I loved him, just as you 
loved mamma on first seeing her, and he loves me as if 
we had known each other two years. Yes,” she said 
in reply to her father’s gesture, “ I read ten volumes of 

8 


114 


CouBin Bette. 


love in his e3’es. I know 3’ou and mamma will ac- 
cept him as my husband as soon as he has proved him- 
self a man of genius. Sculpture is the first of arts ! ” 
she cried, clapping her hands and skipping about the 
room. “ Come, I ’ll tell 3’ou the whole truth.” 

“What! is there an^'thing more?” asked her father, 
smiling. 

Her perfect innocency, and its guileless chatter, had 
reassured the baron. 

“ A confession of the utmost importance ! ” she an- 
swered. “ I loved him before I knew him ; but I am 
distractedly in love for the last hour since I saw him ! ” 

“Distracted! I should say so,” replied the baron, 
charmed with the spectacle of such artless passion. 

“Don’t punish me for m3’ confidence!” she cried. 
“It is so sweet to tell m3’ dear papa that I love, I 
love ! and I am happy in loving ! You shall see my 
Wenceslas,” she continued, — “ a brow full of melan- 
chol3^ gra3^ e3’es shining with the sun of genius, and 
so distinguished in manner ! Tell me, is Livonia a fine 
country? The idea of cousin Bette marr3’ing such a 
man when she is old enough to be his mother ! It would 
be murder ! But I am so jealous of what she has done 
for him ! I don’t think she will view the marriage with 
satisfaction.” 

“Now, my darling, 3’ou must not conceal anything 
from your mother,” said the baron. 

‘ ‘ Then I must show her the seal ; and I promised 
cousin Bette not to betra3’ her stor3’ to mamma, who, 
she says, will make fun of it,” said Hortense. 

“You are delicately honorable about the seal, and 
yet you are going to steal a lover from your cousin ! ” 


Cousin Bette. 


115 


“ I gave a promise about the seal, but none about its 
maker.” 

This little episode, patriarchal in its simplicity, chimed 
in well with the secret necessities of the family ; the 
baron, therefore, while praising his daughter for her 
frankness, told her that in future she must leave the 
management of the affair in the hands of her parents. 

“You understand, my little daughter, that you your- 
self cannot ascertain whether jour cousin’s lover is 
reall}" a count, whether his papers are regular, and his 
conduct satisfactory. As to your cousin, she refused 
five offers when she was twenty years 3’ounger ; she is 
no obstacle. I ’ll take it upon myself to settle that.” 

“ Now, papa, if you wish to see me married, don’t 
speak of our lover to cousin Bette until the marriage 
contract is to be signed. I have been questioning her 
on this subject for the last six months, and I can tell 
3’ou there is something inexplicable about her.” 

“ What is it? ” asked her father, puzzled. 

“ Well, her look is dangerous when I go too far 
about her lover, though it is only in joke. Make your 
inquiries, if you like, but leave me to row my own boat. 
My frankness ought to satisfy you.” 

“ Our Lord said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto 
me ; ’ you are one of those who turned and came back 
again ! ” answered the baron, in a slight tone of rid- 
icule. 

After breakfast the dealer was announced, together 
with the artist and the work of art. The vivid color 
which overspread the girl’s face made the baroness un- 
eas}^ and then suspicious, until at last her daughter’s 
confusion of manner and the warmth of her glances be- 


116 


Cousin Bette. 


trayed to the mother’s eye the existence of a mystery 
which the young heart was little able to conceal. 

Count Steinbock, dressed in black, seemed to the 
baron a very distinguished young man. 

“ Could you make a statue in bronze?” he said to 
him, examining the little group. 

After admiring it with the air of a connoisseur he 
passed it to his wife, who knew nothing of art. 

“ Is n’t it beautiful, mamma?” whispered Hortense. 

“ A statue ! Monsieur le baron, that is not so diffi- 
cult as the composition of a clock like this,” replied 
the artist to the baron’s question, pointing to a model 
in wax of the Twelve Hours eluding the grasp of the 
Loves, which the dealer had taken the precaution to 
bring with him, and was now displaying on the side- 
board in the dining-room. 

“ Leave this model with me ! ” said the baron, amazed 
at the beauty of the work. “ I wish to show it to the 
ministers of the Interior and of Commerce.” 

“ Who is this 3’oung man who seems to interest 3*ou 
so much ? ” asked the baroness of her daughter. 

“ An artist able to put such a model into execution 
could make a hundred thousand francs by it,” said the 
dealer, assuming a knowing and m3’sterious air as soon 
as he saw a mutual understanding in the e3"es of the 
artist and the young lady. “ He need sell only twent3’ 
copies at eight thousand francs apiece, — for each copy 
will cost a thousand crowns to execute ; but if he num- 
bers the copies and destroys the model, twent3^-four 
amateurs will easily be found anxious to be the only 
possessors of a work like that.” 

“A hundred thousand francs ! ” cried Steinbock, look- 


Cousin Bette, 


117 


ing at Hortense, the dealer, the baron, and the baroness, 
eadi in turn. 

“Yes, a hundred thousand francs!” repeated the 
man; “and if I were rich enough I’d buy it of you 
myself, for if the model is destro^^ed it will become a 
valuable property. Some prince or other would give 
thirty or forty thousand francs for such a treasure to 
adorn his salon. Art has never yet produced a clock 
which satisfies both the middle classes and the connois- 
seurs, and this of Monsieur Steinbock is the solution 
of the difficulty.” 

“ These are for 3’ou, monsieur,” said Hortense, giv- 
ing six napoleons to the dealer, who withdrew. 

“ Do not mention this visit to anj" one,” said the 
artist to the merchant, following him to the door. “ If 
any one asks 3’ou where the group has gone, sa}’ to the 
Due d’Herouville, the famous amateur who lives in the 
rue de Varennes.” The man nodded assent. 

“May I ask 3’our name?” said the baron to the 
count, as he re-entered the room. 

“ Comte de Steinbock.” 

“ Have 3’ou papers to prove it? ” 

“Yes, Monsieur le baron, in the Russian and Ger- 
man languages ; but they are not legalized.” 

“ You think you are capable of making a statue nine 
feet high?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Well, if the personages I am about to consult are 
satisfied with these specimens of your work, I can ob- 
tain for you an order to make the statue of Mardchal 
Montcornet, which is about to be erected over his tomb 
in Pere-la-chaise. The minister of War and the old 


118 


Cousin Bette. 


officers of the Imperial Guard give a large sum towards 
it, so that we may control the choice of the artist.” 

“Oh, monsieur, it would make my fortune ! ” cried 
Steinbock, overwhelmed by so many aspects of hap- 
piness. 

“ Then you ma}^ feel easy,” answered the baron, gra- 
ciously ; “if the two ministers to whom I shall show 
your group and this wax model are pleased with 3"Our 
work, 3’our future is safe.” 

Hortense squeezed her father’s arm till it ached. 

“ Bring me your papers, and say nothing of 3'our 
hopes to any one — not even to our old cousin Bette.” 

“ Lisbeth ! ” exclaimed Madame Hulot, suddenly com- 
prehending the beginning and end of the matter, though 
not its intermediate history. 

‘ ‘ I could prove to 3’ou m3’ capacit3^ b3’ making a bust 
of Madame la baronne,” said Wenceslas. 

Struck with Madame Hulot’s great beauty, the artist 
had been comparing mother and daughter. 

“Well, monsieur, life will soon open brighttyfor you,” 
said the baron, quite captivated with the elegant and 
distinguished air of the 3’oung count. “You will find 
out that genius cannot long remain hidden in Paris, 
where all labor gets its just reward.” 

Hortense, blushing, presented the 3’oung man with a 
pretty Algerine purse containing sixt3’ pieces of gold. 
The artist, touched in his pride of nobilit3", echoed the 
color of her cheeks with a flush of mortification on his 
own which it was easy to understand. 

“ Perhaps it is the first money you have ever received 
for your works,” said the baroness, kindly. 

“Yes, madame; the first for my works of art, but 


Cousin Bette, 119 

not the first for my labor. I have worked as a journey- 
man.” 

“ Well, let us hope that m}'’ daughter’s money may 
bring you happiness,” answered Madame Hulot. 

“ Take it without scruple,” said the baron, seeing 
that Wenceslas held the purse undecidedly in his hand 
without putting it in his pocket. “We shall certainly 
recover the amount from some great lord, — a prince 
perhaps, — who will pay us more than we have given 
you for the possession of your beautiful masterpiece.” 

“Ah, papa, I value it too much ever to part with it 
to an 3 ’ one, — even to one of the royal princes,” ex- 
claimed Hortense. 

“ I will make mademoiselle another and prettier 
group.” 

“ But it would not be this one,” she answered, softl 3 \ 
Then, as if ashamed of having said so much, she went 
into the garden. 

“ I shall destro}^ the model when I get home,” said 
Steinbock. 

“ Well, bring me 3 "our papers, and you shall soon hear 
from me if these works fulfil the expectations which I 
have formed of them, monsieur,” said the baron. 

On this the artist felt obliged to take his leave. After 
bowing to Madame Hulot and Hortense, who returned 
from the garden expressly to receive that bow, he went 
to walk in the Tuileries, not daring — in fact, not able 
— to return to his garret, where his tjTant would as- 
sault him with questions and wrench his secret from his 
breast. As he walked along, the lover designed in fancy ' 
a dozen groups ; he felt within him the power of chisel- 
ling marble like Canova, who once in a like extremity 


120 


Cousin Bette, 


came near perishing. Wenceslas was transfigured by 
Hortense, who became for him a visible and tangible 
inspiration. 

“ Now,” said the baroness to her daughter, “ tell me 
what all this means.” 

“ Well, my dear mamma, 5^ou have just seen cousin 
Bette’s lover, who is, I hope, henceforth mine. But shut 
your eyes and pretend you don’t see. There ! I, who 
meant to hide everything from you, am just on the point 
of telling it all ! ” 

’^‘ Good-by, my dears,” said the baron, kissing his 
wife and daughter. “ I think I ’ll go and see the Nanny- 
goat, and find out something about the 3’oung man.” 

“ Be prudent, papa,” cautioned Hortense. 

“ M3" daughter,” cried the baroness, after listening 
to the 3’oung girl’s poem, whose last strophe was the 
incident of the morning, “ my dear little daughter, the 
worst deceiver upon this earth is, and ever will be, art- 
less innocence.” 

True passions have an instinct. Put a dish of fruit 
before a gourmand, and he will choose the best unerr- 
ingly, without looking at it; leave a well-bred 3"Oung 
girl to select a husband, and if she is in a position to 
have the man she chooses, she is seldom mistaken. Na- 
ture is infallible. The action of nature in this respect is 
called love at first sight. In love, first sight is neither 
more nor less than second sight. 

The satisfaction of the baroness, though concealed by 
her maternal dignity, was equal to that of her daughter ; 
for, of the three ways of marrying Hortense pointed out 
by Crevel, the best, to her mind, seemed to have come 
about. In this event she saw an answer to her fervent 
prayers. 


CouBin Bette, 


121 


Mademoiselle Fischer’s galley-slave, compelled after 
a while to go home, had the happy thought of hiding 
his lover’s joy beneath the legitimate joy of the artist 
rejoicing in his first success. 

“Victory! My group is sold to the Due d’Herou- 
ville ! ” he cried, flinging the sixty gold pieces on the 
old maid’s table. 

We may be sure he had hidden next his heart the 
purse in which Hortense gave them. 

“ Well,” said Lisbeth, “ that’s fortunate ; for I was 
getting worn out with work. You see, my dear child, 
mone}’ comes in so slowly from the business you in- 
sisted on choosing, — this is the first time 3’ou have 
earned a penny in all the five }'ears 3'ou ’ve plodded at 
it! This sum is bareh' enough to pa3" me back what' 
3’ou have cost me since you gave me that note of 3’ours 
in exchange for all m3’ savings. But never mind,” she 
added, counting the gold, “ this mone3’ will all be spent 
on 3’ou. It will make us comfortable for a 3'ear ; and 
meantime 3’ou will be able to pa3^ me off and get a good 
sum for 3’ourself, if 3’ou keep on at this rate.” 

Seeing that the deception was successful, Wences- 
las went on to tell Bette various tales about the Due 
d’Herouville. 

“ I shall make you wear black, — that ’s the fashion, 
— and get 3’ou a new supply of linen ; for you must 
dress better if 3’ou go among such people,” answered 
Bette. “And you need better rooms, — larger and 
more suitable than this horrible garret. I ’ll furnish 
them properl3’. How ga3’ 3’ou are ! ” she added, exam- 
ining Wenceslas. “ Why, you are no longer the same 
man ! ” 


122 


Cousin Bette. 


“ They told me group was a masterpiece.” 

“ So much the better; now make others,” said the 
hard, practical spinster, incapable of understanding the 
happiness of his triumph or his joy in the creation of 
beauty. “ Don’t think about what is already sold, but 
make something else fit to sell. You spent two hun- 
dred francs in mone}-, not counting your time and labor, 
on that horrid Samson, and the clock will cost more 
than two thousand to execute. If j^ou take my advice, 
you ’ll finish off those two little boys crowning the lit- 
tle girl with harebells, — that will please the Parisians. 
Meantime I ’ll go round to Monsieur Graff, the tailor, 
on my way to Monsieur Crevel’s. Go up to your own 
room, and he will send and measure you.” 

The next da}" the baron, by this time in love with 
Madame Marneffe, paid a visit to his cousin, who was 
a good deal surprised on finding him at the door when 
she opened it, as he had never before appeared in those 
regions. She at once thought, “Can Hortense be en- 
vious of my lover?” Crevel had told her, the evening 
before, of the rupture of the proposed marriage. 

“ Why, cousin, you here? This is the first time in 
your life that you have come to see me, and I am sure 
it is not for the sake of my pretty eyes ! ” 

“ Pretty ! that is true ! ” replied the baron. “ They 
are the handsomest eyes I ever saw ! ” 

“ What has brought you? I am ashamed to receive 
you in such a hovel.” 

The first of the two rooms which Bette occupied 
served as a salon, dining-room, kitchen, and work- 
room. The furniture was that of well-to-do working- 
folks ; chairs of walnut wood with straw bottoms ; a 


Cousin Bette, 


123 


small dining-table, also of walnut ; a woi k-table ; col- 
ored engravings in black wooden frames ; little muslin 
curtains at the window, and a large walnut wardrobe. 
The tiled floor was well polished ; ever3^thing in the 
room shone with cleanliness, without a grain of dust, 
and 3^et it was cold and cheerless, — a true picture 
after Terburg, with nothing lacking, not even the gra^^ 
tints reproduced by a wall-paper once blue and now 
faded to the color of flax. As to the bedroom, no one 
had ever penetrated thither. 

The baron took in everything at a glance, saw the 
sign-manual of commonness everywhere, from the stove 
of cast-iron down to the household utensils, and his 
stomach actuall^'^ turned as he said to himself, “This 
is virtue ! ” 

“ Why am I here?” he said aloud. “ You are too 
clever a girl not to end by guessing wh^^, so I had 
better tell j^ou at once,” he cried, sitting down by 
the window and pushing back a corner of the muslin 
curtain. “There's a veiy pretty little woman in this 
house.” 

“Madame Marnefle. Oh, now I understand!” she 
said; “but how about Josepha?” 

“Alas, cousin, there’s no longer a Josepha. She 
has turned me off like a footman.” 

“And 3’ou propose to — ” said his cousin, looking 
at him with the dignity of a prude oflfended ten minutes 
too soon. 

“As Madame Marneffe is a very well-bred woman, 
and the wife of a government clerk, it won’t compro- 
mise 3"0u to receive her here,” said the baron. “ I want 
3'ou to be neighborh’. Oh I you will like it. She will 


124 


Cousin Bette • 


be very polite to the cousin of a director of the War 
department.” 

Just then the rustle of a dress was heard on the stair- 
case, and the tread of a little boot. The sound ceased at 
the landing. After knocking twice at the door, Madame 
Marneffe appeared. 

“ Forgive me this irruption, mademoiselle,” she said ; 
“but I did not find 3"Ou yesterday’, when I came to 
pay you a little visit. We are neighbors ; and if I had 
known you were cousin to a councillor of state, I should 
have asked you long ago to employ 3’our influence with 
him in our behalf. I have just seen Monsieur le direc- 
teur enter your apartment, and I have taken the lib- 
ert}' to call ; for my husband. Monsieur le baron,” she 
added, turning to Hulot, “has told me that a report 
upon the employes in the department is to be sent in 
to-morrow.” 

She seemed to be agitated and to catch her breath. 
It is true that she had really run up the stairs. 

“You need not offer me a petition, fair lady,” replied 
the baron. “ It is I who ask the favor of visiting 3’ou.” 

“ Certainly, if mademoiselle will permit, pray come,” 
said Madame Marneffe. 

“Go, cousin ; I will rejoin j^ou,” said Bette, discreetly. 

The wily Parisian woman had counted so surely on 
this visit and on the intentions of the baron that she 
had not only made a toilet appropriate to such an inter- 
view, but she had also decorated her apartment. Flow- 
ers, bought on credit, filled the room. Marneffe himself 
had helped his wife to clean the furniture and polish up 
the various little knick-knacks, — cleansing, brushing, 
and dusting everything. Valerie wished to appear in a 


Cousin Bette, 


125 


bower of freshness which should please Monsieur le 
directeur, and please sufficiently to enable her to be 
stern, and hold the sugar-plum aloft as with a child, — 
in short, to employ the resources of modern tactics. 
She judged Hulot rightly. Let a Parisian woman once 
degrade herself, and she can overturn a ministry. 

This hero of the empire, filled with the notions of the 
empire, knew little of the ways of modern love, with 
its new-fangled scruples, and the various sophistries in- 
vented since 1830, by which “ poor feeble woman” has 
come to look upon herself as the victim of her lover’s 
wishes, as the sister of charity who binds his wound, as 
an angel of devotion and self-sacrifice. This new art 
of love expends a vast quantity of pious words on the 
devil’s work. Passion is a rnai^r ; its votaries aspire 
to the ideal, to the infinite, and each side seeks to 
become better and purer through love. All these fine 
phrases are a pretext to put more ardor into love’s prac- 
tice, more fury into its catastrophes. Such hypocrisy 
— the special s 3 'mptom of our time — has gangrened gal- 
lantry. The man and the woman consider themselves 
angels, and act like devils if the}^ can. Love in Hulot’s 
palmy da 3 "s had no time to analyze itself between two 
campaigns, and in 1809 it rushed to victory like the em- 
pire itself. After the Restoration, the handsome baron, 
returning to the conquest of women onl 3 ^, had in the 
first instance consoled a few of his former loves, now 
eclipsed like the extinguished stars of the political fir- 
mament, and after that, growing an old man, he al- 
lowed himself to be captured by the Jenny Cadines and 
Josephas. 

Madame Marnefle had pointed her guns with refer- 


126 


CoiiBin Bette. 


ence to the director’s antecedents, which her husband 
told her at full length, having obtained his information 
at the war office. The comedy of modern sentiment 
might, Valerie thought, have the charm of novelty for 
such a man ; and the trial that she made of it on this 
occasion answered, let us here say, to her expectations. 


Cousin Bette, 


127 


CHAPTER X. 

SOCIAL COMPACT BETWEEN EASY VIRTUE AND JEALOUS 
CELIBACY SIGNED, BUT NOT RECORDED. 

Thanks to her sentimental and romantic manoeuvres, 
Valerie, without committing herself in any wa}^, ob- 
tained the appointment as sub-director and the cross 
of the Legion of honor for her husband. 

This little triumph was not attained without cer- 
tain dinners at the Rocher de Cancale, theatre parties, 
and a variety" of trifling gifts, such as shawls, scarfs, 
dresses, and jewelr3^ The apartment in the rue du 
Doyenne did not please the lady, and the baron con- 
spired to furnish another magnificently in a charming 
modern house in the rue Vanneau. 

Monsieur Marneffe obtained leave of absence for two 
weeks, to be taken within a month, for the purpose of 
attending to his private affairs in the country, together 
with a gift of money, with which he privately intended 
to travel in Switzerland and studj^ the fair sex. 

Though Baron Hulot was much taken up with his 
new charmer, he did not neglect his prospective son-in- 
law. The minister of commerce, Comte Popinot, loved 
art. Hulot induced him to give two thousand francs 
for a copy of the Samson group, on condition that 
the cast should be destroyed and that no copies but 


128 


Cousin Bette. 


his own and Mademoiselle Hulot’s should exist. The 
group excited the admiration of a prince of the blood, 
who was then shown the model of the clock, and or- 
dered it ; but as he wished only one copj’ to be made, 
he was willing to pay thirty thousand francs. Artists 
were consulted, among them Stidmann, and they all 
declared that the author of such works was competent 
to make a statue. Thereupon the Marechal Prince of 
Wissembourg, minister of war, and chairman of the 
committee having in hand the erection of the statue to 
Marechal Montcornet, held a consultation with his col- 
leagues, which resulted in an order for its execution 
being given to Steinbock. Comte Eugene de Rastignac, 
then under-secretary of state, wanting a specimen of an 
artist whose fame increased amid the plaudits of his 
rivals, obtained from Steinbock the charming group of 
two little boys crowming a little girl, ahd promised him 
a studio at the marble works of the government, situ- 
ated, as we all know, at the Gros-Caillou. 

In short, Wenceslas attained success, but success such 
as it is in Paris, — that is, frenzied, overwhelming, likely 
to crush the man whose loins and shoulders are not 
powerful enough to bear it, which, by the waj^, often 
happens. The newspapers and magazines discussed 
Wenceslas Steinbock, although no rumor of these arti- 
cles ever reached either Bette or himself. Every day, 
as soon as Mademoiselle Fischer departed for her din- 
ner, Wenceslas went to the Hulots’, where he spent two 
or three hours, except on the day when the old maid 
dined there. This state of things lasted some little 
time. 

The baron satisfied as to Steinbock’s artistic merit 


Cousin Bette. 


129 


and social position, the baroness pleased with his nature 
and principles, Hortense, proud of her sanctioned love 
and the fame of her lover, now spoke openly of the 
marriage. The famil}’ happiness was at its height when 
a piece of indiscretion on the part of Madame Marneffe 
imperilled everything. 

Lisbeth, whom the baron endeavored to allj^ with 
Madame Marneffe, so as to keep a private eye upon 
the household, had already dined with Valerie, who, on 
her side, wanted an ear in the Hulot family, and there- 
fore made much of the old maid. Valerie invited Bette 
to a house-warming in the new apartment whenever the 
time came to install herself. The spinster, delighted to 
find another house where she could get a dinner, and 
captivated with Madame Marneffe, was very affection- 
ate to her new friend. Of all those among whom she 
revolved no one had done as much for her. Indeed, 
Madame Marnefie, full of attentions to Mademoiselle 
Fischer, held, so to speak, the same position towards 
her which she herself held towards the baroness, Rivet, 
Crevel, and others with whom she dined. The Mar- 
neffes had excited the commiseration of cousin Bette 
by letting her see the absolute wretchedness of their 
home, heightening it with a tale of moving incidents : 
ungrateful friends ; illness ; a mother (Madame Fortin) 
from whom the}" concealed their povert}^ allowing her 
to die under the belief that she was still wealthy, thanks 
to almost superhuman sacrifices and concealments on 
their part, etc. 

“ Poor people ! ” she said to her cousin Hulot ; “ you 
are quite right to take an interest in them. They de- 
serve it for their courage and their goodness. But I 
9 


130 


Cousin Bette, 


don’t see how they can live on the salary of even a sub- 
director, because thej^ have been forced to go into debt 
since Marechal Montcornet died. What an outrage in 
the government, to expect an emplo3'e of the war office 
to live in Paris, with a wife and children, on two thou- 
sand four hundred francs a 3’ear ! ” 

A young woman who showed Bette all the signs of 
friendship — who told her all while consulting her, flat- 
tering her, asking her advice and seeming to follow 
it — became in a ver}^ short time dearer to the eccentric 
old maid than any of her relations. 

On the other hand, the baron, admiring in Madame 
MarnefiTe a propriety of conduct, education, and man- 
ners not possessed by Jenny Cadine or Josepha or 
any of their friends, fell in love with her in a month 
with an old man’s passion, — that insensate passion 
which nevertheless seems outwardly reasonable. She 
was never guilty of reckless jesting, nor excess, nor 
mad extravagance, nor depravit}^, nor contempt of 
social decenc}", nor that complete independence of all 
restraint which in the actress and the singer had been 
his ruin. He escaped also the rapacitj" of such crea- 
tures, — a craving comparable onlj" to the thirst of 
devils. 

Madame Marneffe, now become his friend and con- 
fldante, made man^" difficulties before she would accept 
his gifts. 

“ You shall give us what you please in places and 
perquisites, — in short, whatever j^ou can obtain for us 
from the government ; but do not seek to degrade a 
woman whom you sa}^ you love,” said Valerie. “ If 
you do, I shall no longer believe your professions ; and 


Cousin Bette, 


131 


I love to believe you,” she added, with the glance of a 
Saint Theresa appealing to heaven. 

Each gift was now a fortress to cany, — a conscience 
to violate. The poor baron manoeuvred to be allowed 
to offer some trifle, — costly, of course, — and congrat- 
ulated himself in having met with a species of virtue 
which seemed the realization of his dreams. In this 
primitive household the baron felt he was as much a 
god as he was at home. Monsieur Marneffe seemed 
a thousand leagues from suspecting that Jupiter medi- 
tated a descent in a golden shower upon his wife, and 
he made himself the lackey of his revered chief. 

Madame Marneffe, twenty-three years of age, a sim- 
ple, timid bourgeoise, a flower hidden in the rue du 
Doj’enne, must of course be ignorant of the depravity 
and licentious wickedness for which the baron now felt 
such unutterable disgust ; he had never before known 
the charms of reluctant virtue which the timid Valerie 
now made him enjoy, in the words of the old song, ‘‘ to 
the end of the stream.” 

Matters standing thus between Hector and Valerie, 
the reader will not be surprised to learn that the latter 
soon heard from her adorer of the approaching mar- 
riage of his daughter to the great artist Steinbock. Be- 
tween a lover who has gained no rights and a woman 
who makes difficulties there are many oral and moral 
struggles in which language often betrays the inward 
thought, just as a foil in a fencing lesson has all the 
eager activit}’^ of the sword. Wise men should recollect 
and imitate at such times Monsieur de Turenne. The 
baron let fall — in reply to a tender remark of Valerie, 
who had more than once exclaimed, ‘‘I cannot conceive 


132 


Cousin Bette. 


how a woman can give herself to a man who is not 
wholl}^ hers” — that the approaching marriage of his 
daughter would give him more libertj^ of action. He 
swore that love was over between Madame Hulot and 
himself for manj’ j’ears. 

“ But the}" say she is so beautiful!” objected Madame 
Marneffe ; “I need proofs of what you say.’’ 

“You shall have them,” cried the baron, delighted 
that Valerie seemed willing to compromise herself. 

“ But how? You must never abandon me,” said the 
siren. 

Hector was then obliged to reveal his plans about 
the house in the rue Vanueau to prove to his Valerie 
that he meant to give her that half of life which be- 
longs to a legitimate wife, reckoning the existence of 
civilized man to be equall}" divided into day and night. 
He spoke of separating decently from his wife, as soon 
as their daughter was married, b}" the simple expedient 
of leaving her ; the baroness would pass her time with 
Hortense and the younger Hulots. He was sure, he 
said, of his wife’s obedience, — “ and then, my angel, 
m}’ life, m}" true home will be in the rue Vanneau.” 

“How coolly you dispose of me!” said Madame 
Marneffe; “and how about my husband?” 

“That vagabond?” 

“Ah, yes, — compared with 3’ou ! ” she answered, 
smiling. 

Madame Marneffe was desperately eager to see 3'oung 
Steinbock after hearing the baron’s account of him ; per- 
haps she desired to get an art treasure out of him while 
they were still under the same roof. Her curiosit}" so 
displeased the baron, however, that she was forced to 


Cousin Bette. 


133 


swear she would never look at him ; and 3’et, although 
she received a prett}' little tea-set in old Sevres as a 
reward for this sacrifice, she kept the wish at the bot- 
tom of her heart as if written in a note-book. So one 
day when she had invited Bette to take coffee in her 
bedroom she started the old maid on the subject of 
her lover, hoping to discover a way of seeing him with- 
out risk. 

“Dearest,” she said, — for “dear” and “dearest” 
were the terms b}^ which they mutually addressed each 
other, — “ why have you never presented 3’our lover to 
me? Don’t 3’ou know that he is now celebrated? ” 

“Celebrated! he?” 

“ Wh3^, people talk of nothing else I ” 

“ Nonsense 1 ” cried Lisbeth. 

“ He is going to make a statue of my father, and I 
could be ver3’ helpful about it ; for Madame Montcornet 
cannot lend him, as I can, a miniature b3" Sain, an ad- 
mirable portrait taken in 1809 , before the campaign of 
Wagram, and given to m3^ poor mother, — the 3’oung 
and handsome Montcornet, in short.” 

Sain and Augustin held the sceptre of miniature paint- 
ing under the empire. 

“ Do 3’ou mean to sa3% dear, that he is to make a 
statue?” demanded Lisbeth. 

“ Nine feet high, ordered b3’ the ministiy of war. 
Bless me ! where do 3"ou keep yourself that you don’t 
know that? Wh3^, the government is going to give the 
Comte de Steinbock an atelier and a lodging at the 
marble-works at the Gros-Caillou ; quite likel3" 3’our 
Pole ma3" be made director of them, — a place worth 
two thousand francs a year 's not to be sneezed at.” 


134 


Cousin Bette, 


“ How do 3m happen to know all that when I know 
nothing?” said Lisbeth at last, recovering from her 
amazement. 

“ M3’ dear little cousin Bette,” said Madame Mar- 
neffe, affectionatel3^, “ are you capable of devoted friend- 
ship, under all trials ? Shall we be like sisters ? Will 
3’ou swear to have no secrets from me if I have none 
from you ? — to be my sp3’^, just as I ’ll be 3’ours ? Above 
all, will 3'ou promise that 3^ou will never sell me to my 
husband nor to Monsieur Hulot, and that you will never 
reveal I told you that — ” 

Madame Marneffe stopped short in her persuasive 
speech, for Bette actually frightened her. The face of 
the Lorraine peasant- woman was terrible. Her keen 
black e3’es were fixed, like those of tigers ; the whole 
countenance was such as we attribute to a pythoness. 
She clinched her teeth to keep them from chattering, 
and a horrible convulsion shook her limbs. One claw- 
like hand was thrust beneath her cap to clutch the hair 
and support her head, suddenly grown too heavy. She 
was on fire. The smoke of the confiagration which raged 
within her seemed to issue from her wrinkles as though 
they were crevices torn open b3’ volcanic eruption: The 
sight was awful. 

“Well, why do you stop?” she said, in a hollow voice. 
“I will be to 3’ou all that I was to him. I would have 
given him my blood ! ” • 

“ Then 3’ou love him ? ” 

“Asm3^son.” . 

“ Ah ! ” said Madame Marneffe, with a sigh of relief, 
“ if that is how yon love him you will soon have the 
happiness of seeing him happ3’.” 


Cousin Bette, 135 

Lisbeth replied by a quick movement of her head, like 
that of one demented. 

“ He marries your little cousin next month.” 

“Hortense?” cried the old maid, rising to her feet 
and striking her forehead. 

“ Good lieavens ! then you do love him ? that young 
man ! ” exclaimed Madame Marneffe. 

“ Valerie, I am bound to you for life and death hence- 
forth,” said Mademoiselle Fischer, “Yes, if 3^ou have 
attachments I will regard them as sacred ; 3’our vices 
shall be virtues to me, for I need them, — j^es, your 
vices,” she repeated. 

“ Are you his mistress? ” cried Valerie. 

“ No, I sought to be his mother.” 

“ Then I can ’t understand it,” returned Valerie. ^^If 
3’ou are neither jilted nor deceived 3’ou ought to be very 
glad to have him make a fine marriage, — his career is 
made. However, in an3" case, the affair is all over with 
3’ou, you ma3^ be sure of that. Your artist goes to 
Madame Hulot’s ever3" da3* as soon as 3’ou start to dine 
out.” 

“ Adeline ! ” said Lisbeth to herself. “ Oh, Adeline ! 
you shall pay dear for this. I will make you uglier 
than I ! ” 

“ Wh3% 3’ou are as pale as death!” cried Valerie. 
“ Something is the matter ! Oh, how stupid I have been I 
Of course the mother and daughter feared you would 
put obstacles in the way of the marriage, and that is 
why they concealed it. But if 3^ou don’t live with that 
3'oung man, m3’ dearest, the whole aflTair is as dark to 
me as the heart of m3" husband.” 

“ Oh, 3’ou don’t know, you!” said Lisbeth, — “3"OU 


136 


Cousin Bette, 


can’t know what this manoeuvre is to me ! it is m3’ death- 
blow ! Ah, what stabs m3’ soul has borne ! You do not 
know that from the moment I could first feel I have been 
sacrificed to Adeline. I was clothed like a scullion, and 
she as a lad3’. I dug the garden, I peeled the vegeta- 
bles, while her ten fingers never stirred unless to tie her 
ribbons. She married the baron and came here to shine 
at the Emperor’s court, and I sta3’ed in m3’ village till 
1809, waiting four years for a suitable husband. The 
Hulots brought me to Paris, but only to make a work- 
woman of me, and to find clerks, or captains no better 
than porters, to marry me. For twent3’-six years I have 
had nothing but their leavings ; and now, when I pos- 
sessed, as the3’ tell in the Scriptures, a single pet lamb 
of my own which was all m3’ 3*03’, the rich Hulots, with 
fiocks and herds of their own, steal him from me, with 
never a word ! without a warning ! Adeline has filched 
m3’ happiness ! Adeline ! Adeline ! I ’ll see 3’ou in the 
mud, down deeper than I ! Hortense, whom I loved, has 
tricked me ! The baron — no, it is not possible. Tell 
me again, some things ma3’ be true — ” 

“Be calm, dearest.” 

“ Valerie, dear love, I will be calm,” said the strange 
creature, sitting down again. “One thing can quiet 
me, — proof, give me proof.” 

“ Your cousin Hortense possesses the Samson group, 
and here is a lithograph of it published in a magazine ; 
she spent all her savings on it, and it is the baron who, 
in the interest of his future son-in-law, has brought 
Comte Steinbock into notice and obtained the order 
from the ministiy.” 

“Water! — water!” moaned Lisbeth, after casting 


CouBin Bette. 


137 


her eyes on the lithograph, at the foot of which were 
the words “ Group belonging to Mademoiselle Hulot 
d’Ervy.” “Water! my head is burning, I am going 
mad ! ” 

Madame Marnelfe brought the water, and Bette, tak- 
ing off her cap, pulled down her black hair and put her 
head in the basin which her new friend held for her. 
She bathed her forehead again and again, and slowly 
the inflammation subsided. After this immersion her 
self-command returned. 

“ Don’t say a word of all this,” she said to Madame 
Marneffe, wiping her hair. “ See ! I am quite calm, I 
can forget it all and think of something else.’* 

“ She will be in a lunatic asjlum to-morrow, that’s 
certain,” thought Valerie, watching her. 

“ Nothing can be done,” resumed Lisbeth. You see, 
my angel, I must be silent and bow my head and march 
to my grave as the waters flow to the sea. What could 
such as I do ? I would gladl}- grind them to powder, — 
Adeline, her daughter, the baron ; but what can a poor 
relation do against a rich family ? It is the old story of 
the earthen pot against the iron pot.” 

“Yes, 3’ou are right,” answered Valerie; “the onl}^ 
thing to be done is to rake as much hay as you can 
into 3"Our own manger. That ’s life as it is in Paris.” 

“And I shall be dead before long,” cried Lisbeth, 
“if I lose the child that I was a mother to, and with 
whom I expected to spend my life — ” 

Tears were in her e^^es and she stopped short. This 
emotion in a woman of fire and brimstone made Madame 
Marneffe shudder. 

“Well, I have gained you!'' said Lisbeth, taking 


138 


Cousin Bette, 


Valerie’s hand; “it is a great comfort in the midst of 
m}" sorrow. We will love each other. Why need we 
part ? I should never stand in your way, for no one will 
ever love me — me ! The men who offered to marry me 
only wanted m3" cousin’s influence. To be conscious of 
the vigor to do great things, to scale the walls of para- 
dise, and to have to spend it in a struggle for bread 
and water and rags and a garret! — ah, it is mart3T- 
dom ! it has withered me ! ” 

She paused abruptl}" and darted a black look into the 
depths of Madame Marneffe’s blue e3"es, which made 
that pretty creature feel as if a steel blade had gone 
through her bosom. 

“What’s the good of talking?” said Bette, as if 
blaming herself. “Ah! I never said so much as this 
before to any one. — 111 deeds come home to roost,” 
she added after a pause. “ Yes, 3"Ou are right; let^s 
sharpen our teeth, and rake all the ha3" we can into 
the manger.” 

“That’s wise,” said Madame Mameffe, who was 
frightened by the s(^ne, and no longer remembered 
that she had made the remark. “ I am sure it is, m3" 
dear. Life is short, and we must get the most we 
can out of it, and use others to our own advantage. 
I have come to that, young as I am. I was brought 
up a spoiled child ; my father married for ambition, 
and threw me off after making me his idol and bring- 
ing me up as if I were the daughter of a queen ! Poor 
mamma, who fed me on dreams, died of grief when 
I married a mere clerk with a salary of twelve hundred 
francs, — a cold, worn-out libertine, thirty-nine years old, 
as corrupt as the galleys, who saw in me just what 3'ou 


Cousin Bette, 


139 


sa}' others saw in you, a means of influence. Well, I 
have ended by thinking that infamous man the best of 
husbands. He prefers the vile creatures at the corners 
of the streets, and leaves me at libert}". If he spends 
all his salary on himself he never asks me how I make 
my money — 

She stopped short, like a woman who feels the rush 
of confidence is carrying her too far. Warned by the 
attention with which Lisbeth listened to her, she began 
to think she had better be more sure of her before 
trusting all secrets to her keeping. 

“ See, my dearest, what confidence I put in j’ou,” 
she said. 

To which remark Bette responded by a sign that was 
completely reassuring. 

Oaths taken by the eyes and by a motion of the 
head are sometimes more solemn and binding than 
those sworn in the courts. 


140 


Cousin Bette* 


CHAPTER XL 

TRANSFORMATION OF COUSIN BETTE. 

“ I HAVE all the externals of virtue,” said Madame 
Marneffe, laying her hand in that of Lisbeth, as if to 
accept her pledge. “ I am a married woman and my 
own mistress to such a degree that if Marneffe has a 
fancy to speak to me in the morning and finds my door 
locked he goes away without a word. He loves his 
child about as much as I love those marble urchins 
playing at the feet of the Rivers in the Tuileries. If I 
don’t come home to dinner he dines with my maid, — 
for the maid is devoted to him, — and after dinner he 
goes out and never comes in till the middle of the night. 
Unfortunately, for the last 3’ear I have not had a maid, 
which means in plain language that I am a widow. I 
have never had but one love, one happiness. He was 
a rich Brazilian, who went away a year ago, — it was 
a great error. He returned to Brazil, intending to sell 
his property and come back to live in France. If he 
ever returns, what will he find me ! Bah ! it ’s his fault 
— not mine. Why did he stay away so long? Perhaps 
he was shipwrecked, like my virtue.” 

‘‘Adieu, dearest,” said Lisbeth, abruptly"; “ we will 
never part. I love 3’ou and value j^ou; I am yours. 
The baron teases me to go and live in 3’our new house. 


Cousin Bette. 


141 


rue Vanneaii. I did not wish to, because I saw the self- 
interested motive of that new benefit.” 

“Ah! you were to watch me! Yes, I know that,” 
said Madame Marneffe. 

“ Of course ; that was the motive of his generositj’^,” 
replied Lisbeth. “ Half the benefits that are bestowed 
in Paris are speculations, just as half the ungrateful 
acts are deeds of vengeance. People treat poor rela- 
tions as they do rats when they give them a scrap of 
lard. I shall accept the baron’s offer, for this house is 
now intolerable to me. Ha, ha ! 3^ou and I have sense 
enough to hold our tongues about all that might injure 
us, and sa}" whatever it is best to say ; therefore, let our 
compact be — friendship, and no indiscretion.” 

“So be it!” cried Madame Marneffe jo3’full3", de- 
lighted to obtain a respectable intimate, a confidante, a 
species of virtuous aunt. “Do 3"Ou know that the baron 
is doing great things in the rue Vanneau?” 

“ I believe 3’ou ! ” said Lisbeth. “ He has spent thirt3^ 
thousand francs on it already. I don’t know where he 
got them, for Josepha, that Jewish singer, bled him at 
eveiy pore. Oh ! 3’ou have fallen on your feet ! ” she 
added. “ The baron would steal for a woman who holds 
his heart in such satiny white hands as yours.” 

“ Well,” returned Madame Marneffe, with the lib- 
erality of such women, which really comes of indiffer- 
ence, “take what you like, dearest, out of this room 
to fit up your new lodging, — that bureau, that ward- 
robe with the mirror, the carpet, the hangings, — an3’- 
thing 3^011 like.” 

Bette’s eyes dilated with joy ; she dared not believe 
in such a gift. 


142 


Cousin Bette, 


“You do more for me by one act than all m}^ rich 
relations in thirt}' years,” she cried. “ Thej* never even 
asked if I had an}" furniture. When the baron paid 
me his first visit, a few weeks ago, he threw the glance 
of a rich man at my poverty. Well, thank you, dear- 
est. I will repay 3’ou some day ; you shall know hoio, 
later.” 

Valerie accompanied Bette to the head of the stairs, 
where the two women kissed each other. 

“ She smells poor,” thought the prett}" woman when 
alone. “ I sha’n’t kiss her often. But it is well to be 
cautious, and keep on good terms with her; she can 
be very useful to me, and even help to make my for- 
tune.” 

Like a true Parisian, Madame Marneffe abhorred 
trouble. She had the indolence of a cat, which never 
runs or jumps unless with an object. To her mind life 
ought to be all pleasure, but pleasure without trouble. 
She loved flowers, provided they were brought to her. 
She had no idea of going to the theatre without a box 
to herself and a carriage to take her there. These ex- 
travagant tastes came from her mother, who was kept 
b}' General Montcornet, during his visits to Paris, in 
the utmost luxury, and who for twent}^ years had seen 
the world at her feet, until — naturally a spendthrift — 
she had run through her share of a luxury which, after 
the fall of Napoleon, became merely traditional. The 
great men of the empire equalled in extravagance the 
great lords of former times. Under the Restoration, 
the nobility, remembering how they had been robbed 
and ill-used, became, with one or two exceptions, eco- 
nomical, judicious, and thrifty, — in fact, bourgeois, and 


Cousin Bette, 


143 


no longer magnificent. Since then, the events of 1830 
only consummated those of 1793. In future, France 
may have great names, but she will never again have 
great families, unless certain political changes now im- 
possible to conceive should aiise. All things at the 
present day bear the stamp of personality. The wealth 
of the wisest is in the form of annuities. Family in its 
past meaning exists no longer. 

The cruel grasp of poverty which gripped Valerie on 
the day when, as Marneffe said, she “snared” Hulot, 
was the cause which led that j oung woman to make her 
beautj^ the means of fortune. For some time past she 
had felt the need of a devoted friend to take the place 
of her mother, — one in whom she could confide much 
that must be hidden from a waiting-maid, and who 
could act, think, go and come at her behest, — a famil- 
iar, in short, who would agree to take an unequal share 
in their mutual life. She had guessed quite as soon as 
Lisbeth the reasons of the baron’s wish to create an in- 
timacy between them. Guided b}^ the unerring clever- 
ness of the Parisian woman, who spends hours stretched 
on a sofa turning the lantern of her observation into 
the dark corners of the minds, the feelings, and the in- 
trigues about her, she had conceived the idea of making 
herself the accomplice of the spy who was to be placed 
over her. In all probability her fatal indiscretion in the 
matter of Hortense and Wenceslas was premeditated ; 
she had fathomed the true character of the woman’s in- 
tense nature mastered by an empty passion, and wished 
to attach it to herself. The conversation was like the 
stone which a traveller casts into a gulf to measure 
its depth ; and Madame Marneffe was frightened when 


144 


Cousin Bette. 


she found an lago and a Richard III. combined in this 
strange creature, outwardly so powerless, so humble, 
and so little to be feared. 

For a moment Bette had become her natural self; 
for a moment the savage Corsican nature, bursting the 
slender bonds that restrained it, recovered its threat- 
ening attitude, like a tree escaping from the hands that 
drag it down as they gather its ripe fruit. 

The fulness, perfection, and rapidity of conception 
in virgin natures must strike an observer of social life 
with admiration. Virginity, like all other anomalies, 
has special resources and an all-i>ervading grandeur." 
Life, when its forces are economized, takes on a qual- 
ity of resistance and of incalculable endurance in the 
virgin nature. The brain is enriched in its entire t}" by 
the reserve force of its faculties. When chaste per- 
sons need to use their bodies or their souls, whether 
they are called upon for thought or action, they are 
conscious of a spring in their muscles, a knowledge in- 
fused into their intellects, a demoniacal power, — the 
black magic of Will. 

From this point of view the Virgin Mar}’, if we con- 
sider her for a moment as a symbol only, eclipses 
by her grandeur all the other, Hindoo, Egyptian, and 
Greek, types. Virginity, mother of great things, — 
magna parens rerum., — holds the key of higher worlds 
in her white fingers ; and this grand and lofty excep- 
tion is worthy of the honor which the Church bestows 
upon her. 

For a moment, then, cousin Bette became the red 
Indian, whose dissimulation is impenetrable, whose pur- 
suit cannot be escaped, whose rapid judgments are 


Cousin Bette. 


145 


based on the unerring perfection of his organs. She 
was Hatred and Vengeance personified, uncompromising 
and without quarter, as they are in Italy, in Spain, 
and in the East. These two passions, instinct with 
love and friendship pushed to their utmost expression, 
are known only in the lands which the sun irradiates. 
Lisbeth, however, was a daughter of Lorraine, — in 
other words, born for intrigue and dissimulation. 

She did not play the latter part of her role out of 
her own head, as we shall see. Profoundly ignorant 
of the world about her, she supposed that jails were 
what children imagine them, and she confounded sol- 
itary confinement with ordinary imprisonment. 

When she left Madame Marneffe she went straight 
to Monsieur Rivet, and found him in his office. 

“Well, Monsieur Rivet,” she said, after slipping the 
bolt of his door, “3'ou were right. Poles — scoundrels! 
men without faith or decency" ! ” 

“ Men who want to set Europe on fire,” said the 
pacific Rivet; “ who want to ruin commerce and mer- 
chants for the sake of a country which they tell me is 
full of bogs and Jews, not to speak of Cossacks and 
serfs, — species of wild beasts falselj’ classed as human 
beings. Those Poles misunderstand the age. We are 
no longer barbarians. War, m3" dear lady, is a thing 
of the past ; it went out with the kings. Our period is 
the triumph of commerce, of the industiy and sagacit3" 
which created Holland. Yes,” he continued, working 
himself up, “this is an epoch when the masses will 
obtain all b3’ the legal development of their liberties, 
b3' the pacific working of constitutional institutions. 
That’s what these Poles ignore and I hope — But 
10 


146 


Cousin Bette. 


what were you saying, my dear?” he added, interrupt- 
ing himself as he saw by his workwoman’s manner that 
the science of politics was not in her mind. 

“ Here are those papers,” returned Bette. “ If I don’t 
mean to lose m}^ three thousand two hundred and ten 
francs, I must put that scoundrel in prison.” 

“ I told you so,” said the oracle of the quartier Saint- 
Denis. 

The establishment of Rivet, successor of Pons Broth- 
ers, was still in the rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, in the 
old Langeais mansion, built by the illustrious family of 
that name in the days when the great lords gathered 
around the Louvre. 

“ And for that reason I have been blessing j’ou as I 
came along,” answered Lisbeth. 

“If he suspects nothing, you can put him under 
lock and key by four o’clock in the morning,” said the 
judge, consulting his almanac as to the hour of sun- 
rise ; “ but not until the day after to-morrow,” he added, 
“ because 3’ou can’t imprison a man without notifying 
him that a writ is to be issued for his arrest.” 

“ What a stupid law ! ” said Bette. “ Of course the 
debtor runs away.” 

“ He has the right to,” replied the judge, smiling; 
“ and therefore the best way is — ” 

“As for that. I’ll take the notification to him m}^- 
self,” said Bette, interrupting him, “ and tell him I have 
been forced to borrow money, and that the lender in- 
sists on this formality. I know my man. He won’t even 
unfold the paper ; he ’ll light his pipe with it.” 

“ Ha ! pretty good, pretty good. Mademoiselle Fischer ! 
Well, take it easy; the affair is as good as settled. But, 


Cousin Bette. 


147 


stop one moment ; it is n’t enough to lock up a man. 
People don’t indulge in that judicial luxury except to 
get back their mone3\ Who is to pay you ? ” 

“ Those who pa}’ him.” 

“ Ah, yes ; I forgot that the ministry of war has or- 
dered a monument for one of our clients. This house 
has furnished many a uniform to General Montcornet, — 
he blackened them so fast in cannon-smoke. Ah, what 
a brave fellow he was ! — and he paid rectal 
A marshal of France ma}’ have saved his emperor 
and his country, but his highest praise from the lips of 
commerce will ever be that he paid recta"' 

“Well, then, Saturda}’, Monsieur Rivet, you can be 
read}^ to take him. B}’ the wa}’, I am leaving the rue 
du Doyenne to live in the rue Vanneau.” 

“You are right. I was alwa^’s soriy to see j’ou in 
that hole of a place, which, in spite of m}’ repugnance 
to everything that looks like opposition, I make bold 
to say disgraces — j’es, disgraces the Louvre and the 
place du Carrousel. I worship Louis Philippe ; he is 
my idol, — the august and perfect representative of the 
class on which he has founded his d3’nasty ; and I shall 
never forget what he did for gold lace by re-establishing 
the National Guard.” 

“ When I hear 3'ou talk like that,” said Lisbeth, “ I 
wonder they have never made 3’ou a deput}’.” 

“ The}’ fear my devotion to the dynast}’,” replied 
Rivet. “ My political enemies are those of the king. 
Ah, what a noble nature ! what a fine family ! In 
short,” he added, continuing his declamation, “he is 
my ideal of manners and customs, economy, morals, 
everything ! But the completion of the Louvre is one 


148 


Cousin Bette, 


of the conditions on which we gave him his crown ; and 
I do admit that the civil list, to which we put no fixed 
limit, has left the heart of Paris in a most distressing 
condition. It is precisely because I am myself a juste 
milieu that I desire to see the middle of Paris in a bet- 
ter state. That quarter makes me shudder. You might 
be murdered there any day. — Well, so 3’our Monsieur 
Crevel is appointed major of his legion? I hope we 
shall have the furnishing of his epaulets.” 

“ I dine there to-da3% and I will send him to 3’ou.” 

Lisbeth believed she could still hold the exile within 
her clutches by cutting off his communications with the 
outer world. If he no longer produced works of art he 
would be forgotten, like a man buried in a cave where 
she alone could go and see him. Thus thinking, sho 
enjo3"ed two daj s’ happiness in the hope and expecta- 
tion of dealing the baroness and Hortense a fatal blow. 

To reach the house of Monsieur Crevel, which was 
in the rue des Saussaj’es, she went b}" way of the pont 
du Carrousel, the quai Voltaire, the quai d'Orsa}’, the 
rue Bellechasse, the rue de TUniversite, the pont de 
la Concorde, and the avenue Marignj". This illogical 
route was dictated b}’ the logic of the passions, alwaj's 
extremely antagonistic to legs. While Bette was going 
along the qua3's she walked slowly, with her e3’es fixed 
on the right bank of the Seine. Her reasonings were 
justified. She had left Wenceslas dressing himself, and 
she was sure that as soon as he felt he was safe from 
observation he would take the shortest way to the 
Hulots’. In fact, just as she was lingering along by 
the parapet of the quai Voltaire, gazing eagerh" across 
the river, she spied the artist as he came through the 


Cousin Bette. 


149 


gateway of the Tuileries to cross by the pont Koyal. 
There she came up with the faithless one, and followed 
him unseen — for lovers seldom look hack — to Madame 
Hulot’s house, where she saw him enter like one in the 
habit of doing so. 

This final proof, confirming as it did Madame Mar- 
neflfe’s revelations, drove Lisbeth beside herself. She 
reached Crevel’s house in the state of mental exas- 
peration which leads to murder, and found the newl}" 
appointed major waiting for her and for his children, 
Monsieur and Madame Hulot junior. 

Celestin Crevel is so artless and true a representative 
of the Parisian parvenu that it is scarcely proper to 
enter the house of this fortunate successor of Cesar 
Birotteau without an introduction. Celestin Crevel is 
indeed a world in himself, and as such he deserves, 
more than Rivet, the honor of having his portrait 
painted, not to speak of his importance in this domes- 
tic drama. 


150 


Cousin Bette. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF MONSIEUR CREVEL. 

Have you ever remarked how in childhood, or at 
the beginning of social life, we create for ourselves, 
often unknowingly, a model to be followed ? The clerk 
of a bank when he enters his master’s salon dreams of 
possessing one like it. If he makes his fortune twenty 
years later, it is not the luxury of the time that he will 
set up in his home, but the old-fashioned luxury that 
formerly fascinated him. No one has any conception 
of the absurdities due to this retrospective envy, just 
as we are ignorant of the follies due to secret rivalries, 
which drive men to imitate a type they make for them- 
selves and to spend their vitality in becoming shadows. 
Crevel was assistant-mayor because his predecessor had 
been one ; he was major of his legion because he envied 
Birotteau’s epaulets. Struck by the marvellous improve- 
ments effected by the architect Grindot at the moment 
when the former master of the “Queen of Roses” was 
on the top of the wheel, Crevel “didn’t count his pen- 
nies,” as he said, when it was a question of furnishing 
his apartment. He had gone, eyes shut and purse open, 
to Grindot, an architect who by that time was absolutely 
forgotten. It is impossible to know how long extinct 
glory survives through such belated admirations. 

Grindot produced for the thousandth time his white 
and gold salon hung with red damask. His favorite 


Cousin Bette. 


151 


ebonized woods, carved, as the carvings of his day were 
done, without delicacy, were now, since the exposition 
of the products of industiy, reduced to be the pride of 
provincial households. The candelabras, sconces, fen- 
ders, chandeliers, clocks, etc., belonged to a tasteless 
and barren period. A round table, stationed in the 
middle of the salon, had a marble top inlaid with 
scraps of all the Italian and antique marbles to be 
had in Rome, where they manufacture these minera- 
logical slabs (not unlike the pattern sheets of tailors), 
which were the admiration of the bourgeoisie of Crevel’s 
circle. Portraits of the late Madame Crevel, Crevel 
himself, his daughter and son in-law, bj" Pierre Gras- 
sou, a painter of renown among Crevel’s class of people 
(and to whom the ex-perfumer owed the absurdit}" of his 
Bj ronic attitude), decorated the walls where the}’ were 
hung in pairs. Their frames, which cost a thousand 
francs each, were in keeping with the rest of the costly 
decorations in the cafe style, -which would have made 
a true artist wince. 

Wealth has never lost the slightest chance to prove 
its stupidity. We might have had ten Venices in Paris 
by this time if retired merchants had possessed that in- 
stinct for great things which distinguishes the Italians. 
It is only lately that a Milanese shop-keeper bequeathed 
a hundred thousand francs to the Duomo for the regild- 
ing of the colossal figure of the Virgin which surmounts 
the cupola. Canova, in his will, orders his brother to 
build a church costing four millions, and his brother 
adds something of his own. A Parisian bourgeois (and 
they all, like Rivet, have a love for their city) would 
never think of supplying the bells which have always 


152 


Cousin Bette. 


been lacking to the towers of Notre-Dame. Consider 
the large sums received the government from estates 
to which there are no heirs. Our rulers might com- 
plete the embellishment of Paris with the moneys spent 
during the last fifteen 3’ears, b}^ men like Crevel, on such 
nonsense as stucco mouldings, gilt potter}’, and sham 
statues. 

At the further end of the salon was a very magnifi- 
cent study, furnished with tables and cabinets done in 
imitation of Boule. 

The bedroom, hung with chintz, also opened into the 
salon. Mahogaii}’ in all its gloiy reigned in the dining- 
room, where paintings of Swiss views, richly framed, 
adorned the panels of the wall. Old Crevel, who indulged 
a dream of travelhng in Switzerland, liked to possess 
that land in pictures in preparation for the happy mo- 
ment when he should see it in realit}’. 

Crevel, assistant-mayor and captain of the National 
Guard, decorated with the Legion of honor, had, as we 
have seen, reproduced all the grandeurs of his unfor- 
tunate predecessor. Just where the one had fallen un- 
der the Restoration, this other, totally insignificant, had 
risen, — not by any strange freak of fortune, but by 
force of circumstances. In revolutions, as in storms at 
sea, treasures go to the bottom, the fiimsier and less val- 
uable matters float. Cesar Birotteau, royalist, in favor 
at court, and exciting envy, became an object of attack 
to the middle-class opposition ; whereas his successor, 
Crevel, was the embodiment of the same middle class 
triumphant. 

The ex-perfumer’s apartment, renting for three thou- 
sand francs and fairly bursting with the splendid vulgar 


Cousin Bette. 


153 


things which money buys, was on the first floor of an old 
mansion standing between courtyard and garden. All 
within was kept in as perfect order as the coleoptera of 
an entomologist, for Crevel seldom lived there. 

This sumptuous abode was the legal domicile of the 
ambitious major. The service was performed bj' a cook 
and a valet only. Crevel hired two extra servants and 
had the dinner sent in hy Chevet when he feasted his 
political friends whom he wanted to dazzle, or when- 
ever he entertained his famil}’. His actual existence, 
formerly passed with Mademoiselle Heloise Brisetout in 
the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, was now transferred, 
as we have seen, to the rue Cauchat. Every morning 
the retired merchant (all retired shop-keepers call them- 
selves retired merchants) spent two hours in the rue 
des Saussayes to look after his business, and gave the 
rest of his time to Zaire, greatlj’ to Zaire’s annoy ance, 
Orosmane-Crevel had made a settled bargain with 
Mademoiselle Heloise ; she owed him five hundred 
francs’ worth of happiness per month, without credit. 
Besides this, Crevel paid for his dinner and all ex- 
tras. This primary contract — he made her besides 
a number of presents — seemed economical to the ex- 
lover of the now celebrated Josepha. He remarked to 
his friends apropos of the arrangement, that it was bet- 
ter to hire a carriage at so much a month than to keep 
a stable of your own. Nevertheless, if we remember 
the speech of the porter of the rue Cauchat to Baron 
Hulot, we may believe that Crevel did not escape the 
costs of groom and coachman. 

Crevel had, as we have seen, turned his extreme 
love for his daughter to the profit of his vices. The 


154 


Cousin Bette, 


immorality of his life was justified by the highest fam- 
ily reasons, and the ex-perfumer actually" covered such 
an existence with a varnish of worthy motives. He 
posed for a man of broad views, generous, without 
pettiness of ideas, a lord in small matters, — and all 
for the trifiing sum of twelve or fifteen hundred francs 
a month. At the Bourse Crevel was held to be supe- 
rior to his epoch, and all the more because he was a 
hon vwant. 

In all this Crevel felt he had gone ahead of his 
predecessor Birotteau by a hundred strides. 

“Well,” he said sharply, as soon as he saw Bette, 
‘ ‘ so you are going to marry Mademoiselle Hulot to a 
3'oung count 3"Ou have been bringing up for her under 
3*our petticoat?” 

“ It seems to annoy 3^ou,” answered Lisbeth, fixing 
her penetrating eyes on Crevel. “What interest have 
3"ou in opposing m3^ cousin’s marriage? I am told 3’ou 
prevented her marrying the son of Monsieur Lebas.” 

“You are a good girl, and very discreet,” said Cre- 
vel. “Now do 3’ou suppose I will ever forgive old 
Hulot for the crime of depriving me of Josepha? and 
above all, for having made an honest girl, whom I 
meant to marry in m3" old age, a worthless hussy, a 
stage-pla3"er, an opera singer? Never! never!” 

“ He ’s a good fellow, though,” said Bette. 

“ G.ood-natured, — ver3" good-natured, — too good- 
natured,” returned Crevel. “ I don’t wish him ill ; but 
I mean to have my revenge, and I shall take it. That ’s 
a fixed idea in m3" mind.” 

“Is it on that account that you never come to see 
Madame Hulot now?” 


Cousin Bette, 


155 


“ Perhaps it is.” 

“Ha! ha! were you paying court to my cousin?” 
said Lisbeth, smiling. “I thought so.” 

“ She treated me like a dog, — worse than a dog, — 
like a lacke}", or, I might say, a political prisoner. But 
I shall succeed/’ he said, closing his fist and striking 
his brow with it. 

“ Poor man! It will be rather hard if he finds his 
wife defrauding him, now that his mistress has packed 
him off.” 

“ Josepha ! ” cried Crevel. “ Has Josepha left him? 
deserted him? sent him about his business? Bravo, 
Josepha ! Ah, Josepha, you ’ve avenged me ! I ’ll 
send 3’ou a pearl for each ear, my ex-darling ! But I 
don’t know anything about all this, because, after see- 
ing you that day when Adeline sent for me, I went to 
stay with my friend Lebas at Corbeil, and I have only 
just returned. H^loise moved heaven and earth to get 
me into the country. , I knew the meaning of her tricks ; 
she wanted to have a house-warming in the rue Cau- 
chat with all those artists and vagabonds and literary 
fellows, and without me. I ’ve been tricked ; but I ’ll 
forgive it, for Heloise is so amusing. She ’s an embryo 
Dejazet. Is n’t she funny ? Here ’s a note I found here 
on my return : — 

Old Fellow, — I have set up my tent in the rue Cauchat, 
and friends have made it as good as new, — I took care of 
that. All ’s well. Come when you like. Hagar awaits her 
Abraham. 

Heloise will tell me the news. She has got her Bohemia 
at her fingers’ ends.” 


156 


Cousin Bette. 


“ But m}’ cousin took Josepha’s treachery very well,” 
said Bette. 

“ Not possible?” exclaimed Crevel, stopping short in 
his walk, which resembled the swing of a pendulum. 

“ Monsieur Hulot is no longer young,” observed Bette, 
malicioush'. 

“ I know him. We are all alike under certain circum- 
stances. Hulot can’t do without an attachment. He is 
even capable of returning to his wife,” muttered Cre- 
vel to himself ; ‘ ‘ she ’d be a novelty to him ; and then 
— adieu to my vengeance. Mademoiselle Fischer, you 
could — ah, 3^ou are laughing ! You suspect something I ” 

“lam laughing at the ideas in 3’our mind,” answered 
Lisbeth. “Yes, my cousin is still beautiful enough to 
inspire a passion. I should love her myself if I were 
a man.” 

“ He who has drunk will drink! ” cried Crevel, sen- 
ten tiously. ‘‘You are not telling me the whole truth. 
The baron has found a consolation.” 

Lisbeth nodded her head in the affirmative. 

“ Ah ! he ’s lucky if he can replace Josepha in a day,” 
continued Crevel, bitterly. “But I’m not surprised; 
he told me one night at supper that when he was 
young he always kept three mistresses, — the one he 
was thinking of leaving, the reigning deity, and a third 
to whom he paid court with an e^^e to the future. Ah I 
he ’s lucky to be a handsome man. Cousin Bette, I ’d 
give — that is, I ’d gladly spend — fifty thousand francs 
to get hold of that fine gentleman’s mistress, and show 
him that an old fellow with a pot-belly and a bald 
head won’t let his lady be whistled away from him 
with impunity.” 


Cousin Bette, 


157 


“ My situation/' answered Bette, “ obliges me to hear 
all and know nothing. You can talk to me without 
fear; I never repeat a word of what people confide in 
me. Why do 3'ou want me to break that rule? No 
one would ever trust me again." 

“I know that," said Crevel ; “you are the pearl of 
old maids. But there are such things as exceptions. 
Tell me, does n’t the family give 3’ou an income ? ’’ 

“ My pride,” she said, “ would not allow me to live 
at any one’s expense.” 

“Ah! if 3"Ou would onl}" help me to revenge my- 
self,” continued the ex-perfumer, “I’d put ten thou- 
sand francs into an annuity for 3’ou. Cousin, tell me 
who has taken Josepha’s place, and 3’ou shall have 
enough to pay 3’our rent, your little breakfast, and 
the good coffee you are so fond of ; 3"ou shall bu3" 
pure Mocha, if 3’ou like, — he3"? Ah! pure Mocha is 
so nice ! ” 

‘ ‘ I don’t care so much for the ten thousand francs 
— though it would give me nearl3^ five hundred francs 
a 3’ear — as I do for absolute secrec3%” said Lisbeth. 
“ Don’t you see, my dear Monsieur Crevel, the baron 
is ver3" good to me? He is going to pay my rent.’’ 

“ Yes, and for how long, do 3W suppose? The idea 
of counting on that!" cried Crevel. “Where will he 
get the money?” 

“That I don’t know. But he is spending at least 
thirty thousand francs in furnishing a house for the 
lady.” 

“ A lady ! What, a woman in society? The scamp, 
what luck ! There ’s no one can equal him for that ! ” 

“A married woman, ver3" well-bred,” remarked Bette. 


158 


Cousin Bette, 


“Really?” cried Crevel, opening his eyes at the magic 
words “ well-bred.” 

“Yes,” answered Bette; “full of talent, musical, 
twenty-three years old, with a pretty, artless face, a 
dazzling skin, the teeth of a young puppy, eyes like 
stars, a splendid brow, and feet — such little feet I 
neyer saw the like!” 

“ And her ears?” cried Crevel, sharply stimulated by 
this catalogue of beauties. 

“ Ears fit to model.” 

“Little hands?” 

“I tell you in one word that she^s a jewel of a 
woman ; virtuous, modest, full of delicacy — a fine na- 
ture, an angel, distinguished in every way. Her father 
was a marshal of France.” 

“ Marshal of France ! ” shouted Crevel, giving a tre- 
mendous jump ; “ Good God I damnation ! in the name 
of fortune ! Oh, the rascal ! — Excuse me, cousin, I 
am going crazy. I’d give a hundred thousand francs, 
I do believe — ” 

“ But I tell you she is an honest woman, a virtuous 
woman ; the baron has managed matters very well.” 

“ He has n’t a penny.” 

“ There ’s a husband he has advanced.” 

“Advanced where?” cried Crevel, with a sharp laugh. 

“ In his office already ; and before long, if he is 
obliging, he will get the cross of the Legion of honor.” 

“ Government ought to take care whom they deco- 
rate, and not waste the cross on everybody,” said Cre- 
vel, with an air of political disgust. “What is there 
in that old cur, I should like to know ? I think I ’m 
as good as he,” he continued, looking in a mirror and 


Cousin Bette, 


159 


assuming his attitude; “ Heloise often tells me (at a 
moment when women do not lie) that I am — won* 
derful.” 

“Oh!’" said Bette, “women like stout men; they 
are almost always kind. Between you and the baron 
I should choose you. Monsieur Hulot is witty, and he 
is a fine man with a good figure ; but you, you are 
solid ; and then — to tell you the honest truth — you 
seem to me the greater scamp of the two — ” 

“It is surprising how all women, even the pious 
ones, like that kind of man the best,” cried Crevel, 
catching Bette round the waist in his delight. 

“ The difficulty in this matter does n’t lie there,” said 
Bette. “ You can easily see that a woman with so 
many advantages would n’t be unfaithful to her pro- 
tector for a trifle : it would cost you more than a hun- 
dred thousand francs, for the lady expects her husband 
to be at the head of a bureau in a couple of 3’ears. It 
was poverty that drove this poor little angel into the 
gulf.’’ 

Crevel walked up and down the salon excitedl}’. 

Does he love the woman ? ” he asked presently, when 
his desires, lashed by Lisbeth, had turned into a spe- 
cies of fur3^ 

“ Judge for 3’ourself,” answered the old maid ; “ I don't 
think he has obtained — that” clicking her thumbnail 
against one of her enormous white teeth, “ and 3^et he 
has given her ten thousand francs’ worth of presents.” 

“ Oh ! what a joke it would be,” cried Crevel, “ if I 
had her first ! ” 

“ Goodness ! I am very wrong to tell 3^ou these tales,” 
said Lisbeth, with a show of remorse. 


160 


Cousin Bette* 


“ No; I am resolved to humiliate your family. To- 
morrow I ’ll buy you an annuity of six hundred francs 
in the Funds, but you must tell me all — the name and 
residence of the Dulcinea. I’ll own to you that I 
never had a well-bred woman, and the height of my 
ambition is to know one. The houris of Mohammed are 
nothing in comparison with what I suppose a woman of 
the world to be. In short, she is my ideal, my folly — 
so great that Madame Hulot could never seem fifty years 
old to me,” he said, unaware of the keen intellect to 
which he was speaking. “ Come, m3’ dear Lisbeth, I am 
ready to sacrifice one hundred, two hundred thousand 
francs — Hush, here are m}^ children, I see them cross- 
ing the court3^ard. I give 3’ou m3" word that no one 
shall ever know what you tell me ; in fact, I don’t want 
you to lose the baron’s confidence, on the contrary. He 
must love the woman — that old grann3’ ! ” 

“ He is crazy about her,” replied Bette. “ He did not 
know where to find fort3’ thousand francs for his daugh- 
ter’s dot, but he has already unearthed them for this new 
passion.” 

“ And do you think she loves him?” asked Crevel. 

“ What ! at his age? ” returned Bette. 

“ Oh ! what a goose I am ! ” cried Crevel, “ I, who let 
Heloise have an artist, just as Henry IV. allowed Belle- 
garde to Gabrielle ! Old age ! old age ! — Good even- 
ing, Celestine ; how are 3-00, m3" darling, 3’ou and 3"our 
little one ? Ah, here he is ! I declare, he is going to 
look like me. Good evening, Hulot ; are things going 
on well ? I hear there ’s to be a marriage in the family 
before long.” 

Celestine and her husband made him a sign to be silent 


Cousin Bette, 


161 


before Bette, and the daughter answered boldly, “ A 
marriage ? whose ? ” Crevel at once assumed a sly air 
as if to show that he repaired his indiscretion. 

‘‘Why, that of Hortense,” he said; “though it is 
not quite settled. I have just been staying with Lebas, 
and there was some little talk of Mademoiselle Popinot 
for his son — Come, dinner is ready.” 


11 


162 


Cousin Bette, 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LAST ATTEMPT OF CALIBAN OVER ARIEL. 

By seven o’clock Lisbeth was on her way home in 
an omnibus, for she longed to see Wenceslas, who, she 
now knew, had duped her for the last three weeks, and 
for whom she was bringing as usual a bag full of fruit, 
selected by Crevel himself, whose aflection for his cousin 
had suddenly redoubled. She ran up to the garret with 
a rapidity that took her breath awa^", and found the 
artist emploj^ed in finishing the decoration of a casket 
which he intended to ofler to his dear Hortense. The 
edge of the cover was twined with hortensias, and little 
Cupids were playing among the foliage. To defray the 
cost of materials, the poor lover had carved two tall 
candelabra for Florent and Chanor, resigning to those 
dealers all rights in the beautiful work. 

“ You have been working too hard for the last few 
days, my dear friend,” said Lisbeth, wiping his damp 
brow and kissing it. “Such exertion is dangerous in 
the month of August. Your health will suffer. See, 
here are some peaches and plums I have brought you 
from old Crevel’s. Don’t worry 3’ourself about mone3\ 
I have borrowed two thousand francs ; and unless some- 
thing unforeseen happens, you can repay me when 3’ou 
sell 3^our clock. But I have my doubts about the lender, 
for he has just sent me this stamped paper.” 


Cousin Bette* 


163 


And she placed the warning of arrest Rivet had al- 
ready sent her under the sketch of Marechal Montcornet. 

‘‘For whom are you doing that lovely thing?” she 
asked, taking up the branch of hortensias moulded in 
red wax, which Wenceslas had laid down while he ate 
the fruit. 

“ For a jeweller.” 

“ What jeweller?” 

“ I don’t ^now,” said Wenceslas. “ Stidmann asked 
me to twist the thing up for him ; he is very much 
hurried.” 

“ These are hortensias,” she said in a hollow voice. 
“ Why have you never done anything in wax for me? 
Was it so impossible to make me a ring, a casket, — 
I don’t care what, — a keepsake ! ” she added, with a 
dreadful look at her victim, whose eyes, happily, were 
lowered. “ Yet you say you love me.” 

‘ ‘ Can 3’ou doubt it, mademoiselle ? ” 

“Oh, what an ardent ‘mademoiselle’! Hear me! 
You have been my one thought ever since I found 3’ou 
dying here. When I saved 3’our life 3’ou gave it to 
me. I have never reminded you of that engagement, 
but I made it binding on mj’self. I said , ‘ Since he 
has given himself to me, I swear to make him rich 
and happy.’ Well, I have succeeded in making 3’our 
fortune.” 

“ How?” cried the poor fellow, overcome with jo3’, 
and too guileless to suspect a trap. 

“ I will tell 3’ou how,” resumed Bette. 

Lisbeth could not deny herself the savage pleasure 
of watching Wenceslas as he looked at her with filial 
affection into which his love for Hortense interjected a 


164 


Cousin Bette, 


certain ardor. Seeing, for the first time in her life, the 
fires of passion in the eyes of a man, she fancied she 
had lighted them herself. 

“ Monsieur Crevel offers us a share of a hundred 
thousand francs in a joint-stock company, if you will 
marry me,” she said. “ He has odd ideas, that old 
fellow. What do 3^011 say ? ” she added. 

The artist, pale as death, looked at his benefactress 
with a lifeless e3’e that revealed his thouglfts. He was 
silent, and seemed stupefied. 

“No one ever told me so plainly that I am hid- 
eously ugly,” she said, with a bitter laugh. 

“ Mademoiselle,” answered Steinbock, “ my benefac- 
tress can never be ugly in m3' eyes ; I have the warm- 
est 'affection for 3’ou, but I am only thirty and — ” 

“ I am fort3'-three,” she interrupted. “ My cousin 
Adeline, who is fort3'-eight, still inspires desperate pas- 
sions ; but she is beautiful — beautiful ! ” 

“ Fifteen years’ difference, mademoiselle! What sort 
of home could we make ? For both our sakes, we ought, 
I think, to reflect. M3' gratitude is certainl3' equal to 
3'our benefactions. Besides, I shall repa3' 3'Our money 
in a few days.” 

“ M3’ money 1 ” she cried. “ Oh, 3’ou treat me as if 
I were a heartless usurer.” 

“ Forgive me,” said Wenceslas, “but 3’ou speak of 
it so often — In short, you have created me ; do not 
destroy me.” 

“ You wish to leave me, — I see it plainl3’,” she said. 
“What has given you this strength of ingratitude, — 
3’ou who are made of wax yourself ? Have I lost your 
confidence, — I, your guardian angel, — I, who have so 


Cousin Bette, 


165 


often passed whole nights in working for j’ou, — I, who 
have spent the savings of all life for your benefit, 
who for 3’ears have shared my bread, the bread of a poor 
working-woman, with you, and who gave you everything, 
even courage ! — ’’ 

“ Mademoiselle, enough ! enough ! ’’ cried Wenceslas, 
falling on his knees and taking her hand. “Oh, say 
no more ! In three days 1 will tell you all. Suffer me 
to be happy,” he said, kissing her hands. “ I love, and 
I am loved.” 

“ Well, then, be happ^’, my son,” she said, raising him. 

Then she kissed his forehead and hair with the frenzy* 
of a man condemned to death, as he parts with all on 
his last morning. 

“ Ah, you are the noblest and best of women ! You 
equal her I love ! ” cried the poor artist. 

“ I love 3’ou enough to tremble for your future,” she 
said, darkly. “ Judas hung himself. All ingratitude is 
punished. You leave me, and 3’ou will never again do 
any work of value. Listen to me : without marriage, — 
for I am an old maid, and I do not wish to stifle your 
3"outh, your poetry, as you call it, in arms that are as 
withered as the shoots of a grape-vine, — but, without 
marriage, could we not live together? Reflect, — I have 
the soul of business in me. With ten ^^ars’ toil I could 
amass a fortune, for m3" name is Thrift. Whereas, if 
3’OU marr3' a 3"oung woman who costs mone3", 3"OU will 
spend all and onl3' work to please her. Happiness gives 
nothing but memories. When I think of you I sit with 
hanging arms for hours together. Ah, Wenceslas, sta3’ 
with me ! There, there, I understand it all now ! Yes, 
3"Ou shall have mistresses, pretty women like that little 


166 


Cousin Bette. 


Marneffe, who wants to see you, and who can give you 
pleasures you cannot have with me. You shall marry 
when I have amassed enough to give 3"Ou thirty thou- 
sand francs a ^^ear.*’ 

“You are an angel, mademoiselle, and I shall never 
forget this hour,” answered Wenceslas, wiping his tears. 

“ Ah, now you are all I ask, my dear,” she said, 
looking at him as though intoxicated. 

Vanity is so all-powerful that Lisbeth believed she 
had triumphed. She had made a vast concession in 
offering Madame Marneffe. The strongest emotion of 
her life now took possession of her ; she felt love for 
the first time inundating her heart. To gain another 
such hour she would have sold herself to the devil. 

“ I am engaged to be married,” answered Steinbock, 
“ and I love a woman against whom no other woman 
can prevail. But you are, and ever will be, the mother 
whom I have lost.” 

The words sent an avalanche of snow into the flaming 
crater. Lisbeth sat down, and gazed with gloomy eyes 
at that vision of youth, that high-born beauty, at the 
handsome brow, the fine hair, at all that roused within 
her the repressed instincts of a woman ; and little tears, 
which dried instantly, forced themselves for a moment 
to her eyes. 

“ I do not curse you,” she said ; “ j^ou are but a babe. 
May God protect you ! ” 

She went downstairs and locked herself up in her 
apartment. 

“ She loves me,” said Wenceslas, — “ poor woman ! 
How hotl}^ eloquent she was ! she is crazy.” 

This last attempt of a hard and self-willed nature to 


Cousin Bette, 


167 


keep that other image of beaut}^ and charm for its own 
had so much of violence about it that it can be likened 
only to the savage vigor of a drowning man making a 
last effort to reach the shore. 

On the next day but one, at half-past four o’clock in 
the morning, as Comte Steinbock was sleeping his deep- 
est sleep, some one knocked at the door of the garret. 
He opened it and saw two ill-dressed men, accompanied 
by a third whose coat proclaimed him a sheriff’s officer. 

“ You are Monsieur Wenceslas, Comte de Steinbock? ” 
said the latter. 

“ Yes.” 

“ My name is Grasset, monsieur, successor to Mon- 
sieur Louchard, sheriffs oflacer.” 

“ Well, what do you want of me? ” 

“ I arrest you, monsieur ; you must accompan}" us to 
Clich3\ Be so good as to dress yourself. We have en- 
deavored to spare your feelings, — I have not brought 
the municipal guard, and there is a carriage waiting 
below.” 

“ Yes, we have done it comfortably,” said one of the 
bailiffs, and we count on your generosity.” 

Steinbock dressed, and was taken downstairs by the 
bailiffs, each holding an arm ; he was put into the coach, 
and the driver started without orders, like a man who 
knew where to go. In less than half an hour the poor 
stranger was securely locked up, without having made 
an appeal, so great was his astonishment. 

At ten o’clock, he was called down to the office of the 
prison to see Lisbeth, who, all in tears, gave him some 
money, telling him to live well, and get a room large 
enough to work in. 


168 


Cousin Bette. 


^‘My dear,” she said, “don’t speak of j’our arrest to 
any one ; don’t write it to a living soul ; it would ruin 
your future. We must hide this disgrace. I shall soon 
get 3’ou released, — lam going now to collect the monej' ; 
don’t be anxious. Write me what I shall bring j’ou 
for your work. You shall be free soon or I shall die.” 

“Twice I owe my life to j'ou!” he cried; “for I 
should lose more than my life if I were thought a 
scoundrel.” 

Lisbeth went awaj- with a jo3Tul heart ; she hoped to 
break olf the marriage with Hortense b3’ keeping the 
exile under lock and ke3", and declaring that he had 
returned to Russia, pardoned by the exertions of a wife 
whom he had left there. To carry out this scheme she 
went to Madame Hulot’s about three o’clock in the after- 
noon, though it was not the day on which she habitually 
dined there. But she longed to witness the tortures 
which her little cousin would undergo when the hour 
came for Wenceslas to arrive. 

“Have you come to dinner, Bette?” said Madame 
Hulot, hiding her vexation. 

“Yes.” 

“ Then I will go and tell them to be punctual,” said 
Hortense, “ for you don’t like waiting.” 

Hortense made a sign to her mother not to be anxious, 
for she meant to tell the footman to send awa3’ Monsieur 
Steinbock when he arrived; but the footman was out. 
Hortense was obliged to give her order to the chamber- 
maid, and the chambermaid went upstairs to get her 
sewing before she went to the antechamber. 

“ Well, Hortense,” said Bette, when the young girl 
returned, “3^ never ask me now about my lover.” 


Cousin Bette. 


169 


“ True enough, what is he doing? ” said Hortense ; ‘*1 
see he has become celebrated. You ought to be satis- 
fied,” she whispered in her cousin’s ear; “ they talk of 
nothing now but Monsieur Weiiceslas Steinbock.” 

“They talk too much,” answered Bette, aloud : “he 
is getting restless. I could charm him away from the 
dissipations of Paris, for I know mj^ power over him ; 
but it seems the Emperor Nicholas, wanting to keep 
such a fine artist in Russia, is going to pardon him.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said the baroness. 

“How did you hear that?” said Hortense, whose 
heart was seized with a sort of cramp. 

“ Why,” replied Bette, with devilish malice, “ a per- 
son who has the best claim to him — his wife — wrote 
and told him so ; he got the letter to-day, and wants to 
start at once. It is ver}^ foolish of him to leave France 
for Russia.” 

Hortense glanced at her mother as her head drooped 
to one side ; the baroness had barely time to catch her 
daughter before she fainted away, white as the lace about 
her neck. 

“ Lisbeth ! j’ou have killed her ! ” cried Madame Hulot. 
“ You were born to be our misfortune ! ” 

“ How is it my fault?” exclaimed Bette, rising and 
assuming a threatening attitude, to which the baroness 
in her trouble paid no attention. 

“ I w’as wrong,” said Adeline, holding Hortense ; 
“ring the bell, Bette.” 

At this instant the door of the room opened ; the 
two women turned their heads, and saw Wenceslas 
Steinbock, to whom the cook, in the absence of the 
chambermaid, had opened the front door. 


170 


Coumn Bette, 


“Hortense!” he cried, springing toward the three 
women. 

He kissed his love on her forehead before the eyes 
of her mother, but so respectfully that the baroness 
made no objection. It was better than all the salts of 
England against the fainting fit. Hortense opened her 
eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color returned. A moment 
later she was herself again. 

“So this is what you were concealing from me?” 
said Bette, smiling at Wenceslas, and pretending to 
guess the truth from the evident confusion of her two 
cousins. “ How came you to steal my lover? ” she said 
to Hortense, leading her into the garden. 

Hortense candidly related the whole story. Her father 
and mother, convinced, she said, that Bette had no idea 
of marrying, had authorized Comte Steinbock’s visits. 
But Hortense, like the Agnes of old, attributed to ac- 
cident her purchase of the group and the first visit of 
the artist, who, she declared, was anxious to ascertain 
the name of its owner. Steinbock soon joined the 
cousins and thanked Bette, privately, for so quickly 
delivering him. Lisbeth replied, jesuiticall}", that the 
creditor had made such vague promises that she onl}- 
expected to release him on the following day, but she 
supposed the man had felt ashamed of the .persecu- 
tion and had taken the steps himself. She appeared 
pleased at the result, and congratulated Wenceslas on 
his happiness. 

“ Naughty boy ! ” she said to him aloud before Hor- 
tense and her mother, “ if you had told me night before 
last that you loved my cousin Hortense and that she 
loved you, you would have saved me many tears. I 


Cousin Bette. 


171 


thought you were going to abandon your old friend, 
your mentor, when, on the contrary, you are about 
to be my cousin. In future j^ou are bound to me by 
ties, feeble it is true, but which suffice for the love I 
have sworn to 3'OU.” 

She kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense 
flung herself into her cousin’s arms and burst into 
tears. 

“ I owe my happiness to you,” she said, “ and I will 
never forget it.” 

“ Cousin Bette,” said the baroness, kissing Lisbeth, 
in her joy at the easy manner in which matters were 
settling themselves, “ the baron and I have a debt to 
discharge toward you. Come and talk over matters in 
the garden,” she added, carrying her off. 

So Lisbeth played, to all appearances, the part of 
guardian angel to the familj" ; she felt herself an object 
of importance to Crevel, to Hulot, to Adeline, and to 
Hortense. 

“We wish you not to work any longer,” began the 
baroness. “Let us suppose that you earn forty sous 
a day, not including Sundays, that makes six hundred 
francs a year. How much have 3"0U laid bj" ? ” 

“ Four thousand five hundred francs.” 

“ Poor cousin ! ” said the baroness, lifting her e^’es 
to heaven as she thought of the toil and privations by 
which that sum had been accumulated through thirty 
years. Lisbeth, mistaking the meaning of the exclama- 
tion, saw in it the contemptuous pity of a parvenue, 
and her hatred acquired a fresh dose of gall at the 
very moment when Adeline was overcoming her dis- 
trust for her childhood’s tyTant. 


172 


Couzin Bette. 


“ We will add ten thousand five hundred francs,” 
resumed Adeline, “ and give you a life-interest in the 
whole, with reversion of the capital to Hortense. Tlius 
you will get an income of six hundred francs secured to 
you.” 

Lisbeth seemed at the summit of happiness. When 
she re-entered the salon, with her handkerchief at her 
eyes, apparentlj^ drying the tears of joy, Hortense told 
her of the favors which were being showered on Wen- 
ceslas, now the idol of the family. 

When the baron entered the room the baroness had 
just formall}" addressed Steinbock as her son, and ap- 
pointed that day fortnight for the wedding, subject to 
her husband’s approval. The whole family at once 
surrounded him, some to whisper these facts in his ear, 
others to embrace him. 

“ You have gone too far, madame,” he said severely. 
“ The marriage is not a certainty,” he continued, with 
a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. 

The luckless artist said to himself, “ He has heard 
of mj' arrest.” 

“ Come, children,” said the baron, motioning Hor- 
tense and her lover into the garden. 

He sat down with them on a bench in the kiosk, 
which was covered with lichen. 

“Monsieur le comte, do 3’ou love mj^ daughter as 
much as I loved her mother?” said the baron. 

“ More, monsieur,” replied the artist. 

“ Her mother was the daughter of a peasant, and she 
hadn’t a penn}’.” 

“Give me Mademoiselle Hortense such as she is, 
without a trousseau even.” 


Cousin Bette, 


173 


“ Absurd !” said tjiie baron, smiling. “ Hortense is 
the daughter of a councillor of state in the ministry of 
War, decorated with the grand cross of the Legion of 
honor, a brother of Comte Hulot of immortal glory, 
who will soon be a marshal of France ! Besides, she 
has a dowry.” 

“It is true,” said the happy lover, “ that I seem to 
be ambitious, but if my dear Hortense were the daugh- 
ter of a day-laborer, I should marry her all the same.” 

“ That is what I wanted to know,” said the baron. 
“Eun away, Hortense, I want to talk to Monsieur le 
comte ; you see now that he sincerely loves 3"ou.” 

“Oh, papa! I knew you were joking,” cried the 
happy girl. 

“My dear Steinbock,” said the baron, with infinite 
grace of diction and charm of manner, as soon as he 
was alone with the artist, “ I gave my son two hun- 
dred thousand francs when he married, and the poor 
lad has never asked for one pennj" of it, and he will 
never get one. Mj" daughter's dowiy is also two hun- 
dred thousand francs, which 3’ou must acknowledge to 
have received — ” 

“ Yes, Monsieur le baron.” 

“ How you catch me up ! ” said Hulot. “ Have the 
goodness to listen. I do not expect from a son-in-law 
the generositj" I have a right to claim from a son. M3" 
son knew what I could do and would do for his future. 
He will one day be a minister, and obtain his two hun- 
dred thousand francs readily. As for 3"ou, young man, 
it is another matter altogether. You will receive sixt3" 
thousand francs invested in the Funds at five per cent, 
in your wife’s name. This will be charged with a small 


174 


Cousin Bette, 


annuity for Lisbetli, but she won’t live long; she is 
consumptive, as I happen to know ; don’t say so, how- 
ever, to any one ; let the poor thing die in peace. My 
daughter will have an outfit costing twenty thousand 
francs ; her mother puts six thousand francs’ worth of 
her diamonds into it.” 

‘‘Monsieur, you overwhelm me,” said Steinbock, 
bewildered. 

“As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand 
francs — ” 

“ Say no more, monsieur,” cried the artist. “ I wish 
m}" dear Hortense — ” 

“ Will you listen to me, eflTervescent young man? As 
to the hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not 
got them, but you will receive them — ” 

“ Monsieur — ” 

— from the government, in orders for statues which 
I pledge you my honor I will obtain for you. You 
already have an atelier at the marble-works. Exhibit 
a few fine statues and I will get 3^ou into the Institute. 
There is a great desire in high places to oblige my 
brother and me, and I hope to succeed in getting j ou 
certain work at Versailles which will secure at least a 
quarter of the sum. Then 3"ou will get orders from the 
municipality of Paris, and some from the Chamber of 
Peers — in short, j’ou will have so much to do, my dear 
fellow, that 3"Ou will be obliged to call in assistance. 
In that way I shall pay you the full amount. It is for 
you to say if a dot paid in that manner will satisfy you. 
Examine j^our own capabilities.” 

“ I am capable of making my wife’s fortune all alone, 
even if I had no such help,” cried the brave artist 


Cousin Bette, 


175 


“ A man after m}^ own heart ! ” exclaimed the baron. 
“ Ah ! that noble spirit of youth that fears nothing ! I 
could have overthrown armies for the woman I loved. 
Well,” he added, taking the young man’s hand and 
stroking it, “3’ou have my consent. Next Sunday we 
will sign the marriage contract, and the following Sat- 
urda3- — to the altar ! It is m3" wife’s birthda3".” 

“ All ’s well !” cried the baroness to her daughter, as 
the3" stood at the window. “Your father and 3"Our 
lover are embracing each other.” 

When Wenceslas reached home that evening he 
found an explanation of the enigma of his release. 
The porter gave him a large package which contained 
the papers relating to his debt and a receipt in full, 
accompanied b3^ the following letter : — 

My Dear Wenceslas, — I went to your house at ten 
o’clock this morning, to take you to a royal highness who 
wants to see you. There I heard that certain brigands have 
carried you off to an isle of their own, called Clichy. 

I went at once to find Leon de Lora and told him you 
could n’t get back short of four thousand francs, and that 
your future would be ruined if I could not take you to see 
the royal patron. Joseph Bridau, that man of genius once 
poor himself, who knows your story, happened luckily to 
be there. My son, between them, they made up the mone3d 
I went and paid that Bedouin who committed the crime of 
l^ze-genius in locking you up. As T had to be at the Tuil- 
eries by twelve, I could not go and see you sniffing the air of 
freedom. You are a gentleman; I have pledged my word 
for you to my two friends; but be sure you go and see them 
to-morrow. 

Leon and Bridau don’t wish you to pay them in money; 
they both want a group, and thereby they show their sense. 


176 


Cousin Bette, 


That is what he thinks who wishes he could call himself 
your rival, but is only 

Your comrade, 

Stidmann. 

P. S. — I told the prince you would get back from a jour- 
ney to-morrow, and he said “ Very good, then to-morrow.” 

Wenceslas slept on a bed of roses without a crum- 
pled leaf, spread for him by the halting goddess Favor, 
who steps more slowly for men of genius than J ustice or 
even Fortune, because Jupiter has chosen not to band- 
age her eyes. Easily deceived by the wiles of charla- 
tans, attracted by their trappings and their trumpets, 
she spends the time she ought to take in searching for 
men of merit hidden awa}’ in corners in gazing at such 
shows. 

It is now necessary to explain how it came to pass 
that Baron Hulot was able to get together the amount 
of his daughter’s dowry, and yet to meet the expenses 
of the delightful apartment in which he was about to 
install Madame Marneffe. His financial ideas bore the 
stamp of the genius that guides spendthrifts and reck- 
less people through bogs and morasses where so many 
others perish. Nothing can better show the singular 
powers bestowed b3" vice ; powers to which are owing 
the great deeds done from time to time by ambitious 
and licentious men, — in fact, by all those who follow 
the devil. 


Cousin Bette. 


177 


CHAPTER XIV. 

IN WHICH THE TAIL-END OF AN ORDINARY NOVEL APPEARS 

IN THE VERY MIDDLE OF THIS TOO TRUE, RATHER ANAC- 
REONTIC, AND TERRIBLY MORAL HISTORY. 

On the morning of the preceding day an old man, 
Johann Fischer, in default of thirty thousand francs 
borrowed of him by his niece’s husband, Baron Hulot, 
found himself compelled to make an assignment, unless 
the baron repaid him that day. 

The worth}' old man, with the white hairs of seventy 
winters on his head, had so blind a confidence in Hulot, 
who to the old Bonapartist was a ray of the Napo- 
leonic sun, that he was walking with the bank-messen- 
ger quietly up and down the antechamber of the little 
ground-floor apartment, hired for eight hundred francs, 
where he carried on his divers enterprises in grain and 
forage. 

“ Marguerite has gone to get the money a few steps 
from here,” he said to the messenger. 

The man in gray with silver buttons knew the hon- 
esty of the old Alsatian so well that he was willing to 
go away without the thirty thousand francs, but the 
debtor insisted that he should wait, on the ground that 
it was not yet eight o’clock. Just then a cabriolet 
drove up ; the old man sjh’ang into the street, hold- 
12 


178 


Cousin Bette, 


ing out his hand in perfect faith to Baron Hulot, who 
placed notes for thirty thousand francs in it. 

“ Drive three doors off from here and wait ; J ’ll tell 
3"Ou wh}",” said old Fischer. ‘‘ Here, young man,” he 
added, returning to the antechamber and counting out 
the money to the representative of the bank. 

When the latter was fairly out of sight, Fischer called 
up the cab in which his august nephew, the late Emper- 
or’s right arm, sat waiting, and said, as he followed him 
into the house, “ You don’t want the Bank of France to 
know that you paid me that thirty thousand francs on a 
note endorsed by you. It is a good deal for a man like 
you to be willing even to sign it.” 

“ Let us go and sit at the end of your garden,” said 
Hulot. ‘‘You are sound?” he continued, seating him- 
self under an arbor of grape-vines and looking the old 
man over as a dealer in human flesh looks at a substi- 
tute for the conscription. 

“Sound for an annuity,” answered the lean, vigor- 
ous, bright-eyed old man, in a lively tone. 

“ Do you suffer from heat? ” 

“ No ; on the contrary.” 

“ What do you say to Africa? ” 

“A flne country! Frenchmen followed the Little 
Corporal over there.” 

“ Well, for the safety of us all, you must go to 
Algiers.” 

“ But m\’ business here? ” 

“ A clerk in the War office, just retired, will buy you 
out.” 

“ What am I to do in Algiers?” 

“ Furnish provisions for the armj^ grain and forage ; 


Cousin Bette, 


179 


I have your commission in my pocket. You can get 
3’our supplies in that country for seventy per cent less 
than the price you will receive for them.” 

‘ ‘ How am I to get them ? ” 

“B3" foraging, raiding, seizing them an3’ where. Al- 
giers (a country of which veiy little is known, though 
* we’ve been there eight years) is full of all kinds of grain 
and forage. When these supplies belong to the Arabs 
we seize them under a variety of pretexts ; when they 
belong to us the Arabs try to grab them. There is a 
great deal of fighting and struggling, and no one rightly 
knows how much is stolen on either side. In the open 
country there is no chance to count the bushels of 
wheat or the bales of hay as 3’ou do in the markets and 
the rue d’Enfer. Besides, the Arab sheiks, like our 
spahis, are fond of cash, and the3’’ll sell supplies at 
veiy low prices. The War Department requires a fixed 
quantit3* of provisions, and it estimates the price, not 
b3^ their actual cost, but by the difficult3" and danger of 
procuring them. That’s Algiers from a victualler’s 
point of view. It will be a dozen 3^ears before we gov- 
ernment folks see clear in the matter ; meantime, indi- 
viduals have good e3’es. So 3’ou see, I send 3’ou out to 
make your fortune ; but I put 3’ou there as Napoleon 
put a poor marshal on the throne of a kingdom where 
he wanted a finger in the pie. M3" dear Fischer, I am 
ruined. I must have a hundred thousand francs within 
a 3"ear.” 

“I see no harm in getting them out of the Bedouins,” 
said Fischer, imperturbabl3\ “We did that under the 
empire.” 

‘ ‘ The purchaser of your business will come and see 


180 


Cousin Bette. 


3’ou this morning and pay you ten thousand francs 
down,” continued Hulot. “ Won’t that be enough to 
get 3’ou to Africa ? ” 

The old man nodded assent. 

“ As to the mone}^ 3’ou will want when 3’ou get there, 
don’t worry about that,” resumed the baron. “ I want 
the rest of the purchase money here — ” 

“All is 3'ours, my blood if necessaiy,” said the old 
man. 

“ Oh, don’t be alarmed,” cried Hulot, thinking his 
uncle more clear-sighted than he was ; “ as to the wa3’S 
and means of getting your supplies, \’our honor is not 
in danger ; everjThing depends on the military" authori- 
ties ; I have the appointing of them down there, and I 
am sure of them. Now, uncle Fischer, remember, this 
is a secret of life and death ; I know 3'ou, I trust 3’OU, 
and I ’ve spoken without circumlocution.” 

“ I ’ll go,” said the old man ; “ and for how long? ” 

“ Two 3'ears. You will make a hundred thousand 
francs of 3’our own and live happy ever after in the 
Vosges.” 

“ It shall be as 3’ou wish ; my lionor is 3’ours,” said 
the old man, tranquill3'. 

“Ah! there’s a man after my own heart!” cried 
the baron. “ But you shall not start until you have 
seen your great-niece happily married. She will be a 
countess.” 

But the raiding of Arabs, the ravaging of villages, 
and the sum paid by the war-clerk for Fischer’s busi- 
ness, could not all at once furnish the sixt3’ thousand 
francs which the baron needed for his daughter’s dot^ 
and the fort3’ thousand which he was spending or in- 


Cousin Bette. 


181 


tending to spend on Madame Marneffe. Besides, how 
and where had he obtained the thirt}" thousand francs 
he had just paid to old Fischer? 

A few da3’s earlier Hulot had insured his life for one 
hundred and fift}" thousand francs for three ^^ears in 
two companies. With the policies, on which the pre- 
mium was paid, in his pocket, he said to the banker 
Nucingen, baron and peer of France, with whom he 
was driving from the Chamber of Peers on their wa}' 
to dinner : — 

“Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I ask 
you to lend them to me. I ’ll secure 3’ou bv’ an assign- 
ment of my salary for three 3’ears ; it is twentj’-five 
thousand francs a 3’ear, and the total will therefore be 
sevent3-five thousand. What do 3’ou say ? ” 

“ You may die.” 

Hulot nodded. 

“Yes,” he said, drawing a paper from his pocket, 
“and here ’s a policy of insurance on my life for a 
hundred and fift3' thousand francs, which shall be trans- 
ferred to 3’ou to the amount of eight3" thousand.” 

“ Subbose 3’ou losd 3"our siduation?” said the mil- 
lionnaire baron, with his horrible German accent 

The non-millionnaire baron became thoughtful. 

“ Oh ! I onl3^ make dat opjection to show 3’ou dat I 
run some dancher in gifing 3’ou dat sum. You moost be 
hard-up, for der pank has your zignadure.” 

“ I am just marr3ing m3^ daughter,” said Hulot, “ and 
I have no propert3’, — like other men who serve the gov- 
ernment in these ungrateful days, when those five hun- 
dred bourgeois of the Chamber never think of rewarding 
patriotism and devotion as the Emperor did — ” 


182 


Cousin Bette, 


“ Nonzenze ! 3^ou haf had Chose pha,” interrupted the 
banker; “ dat egsplains all. Bedween ourselves, the 
Due d’Herouville did 3^ou a great zervice in ztealing 
dat leech out of your burse/^ 

The transaction was accomplished b^^ the help of a 
little usurer, named Vauvinet, one of those satellites of 
a great banking-house who lead the waj’ for their ra- 
pacit}’, just as the pilot-fish is said to precede a shark. 
This man promised Baron Hulot, for he was anxious to 
conciliate the favor of the government official, to give 
him at once thirty thousand francs in letters of exchange 
at ninety da^^s’ sight, promising to renew them four 
times, and not put them in circulation. The purchaser 
of Fischer’s business was to pay fort}" thousand francs 
for it, and to receive an order to supply the forage 
needed in a department near Paris. 

Such was the disgraceful entanglement into which a 
man, hitherto honest and one of the ablest supporters of 
the Napoleonic era, was drawn by his passions. Pecula- 
tion and extortion were employed to pay for usury, usury 
to supply his lusts and marry his daughter. This science 
of prodigality, this toil after money were undertaken to 
appear superb in the eyes of Madame Marneffe, to be 
the Jupiter of a second-rate Danae ! No greater activ- 
ity, intelligence, or courage was ever displa^’ed in the 
honest pursuit of fortune than the baron now employed 
to plunge head foremost into a hornets’-nest. While 
attending to the affairs of his department he looked 
after the work-people, the upholsterers, and the small- 
est details of the rue Vanneau. With his mind absorbed 
in Madame Marneffe, he still went to the sessions of his 
Chamber, and was here, there, and everywhere, so that 


Cousin Bette, 


183 


neither his famil}’ nor any one else was aware of what 
really preoccupied him. 

Adeline, surprised to hear that her uncle Fischer was 
paid and to see a dot named in the marriage contract, 
was conscious of a certain uneasiness in the midst of 
her joy at her daughter’s marriage, arranged apparently 
under honorable circumstances ; but the evening before 
the wedding (appointed b}- the baron to coincide with 
the day on which Madame Marnelfe was to take posses- 
sion of her new apartment) Hector put an end to his 
wife’s surprise and anxiety by the following marital 
announcement. 

“ Adeline,” he said, “ now that we have married our 
daughter all our anxieties on that head are over. The 
time has come for us to give up the world ; for I shall 
only keep my situation three years longer, b}^ which time 
I can retire on a pension. Meantime why should we 
spend so much money uselessl}' ? This apartment costs 
six thousand francs a 3’ear, we keep four servants, and 
our costs of living are at least thirty thousand. Of course 
you wish me to fulfil m}^ pledges? — well, I have as- 
signed over m3" salary for the next three 3’ears to get 
the money to pay your uncle Fischer, and to provide 
for Hortense on her marriage — ” 

“Ah, 3"ou did right, dear friend,” she cried, seizing 
his hands and kissing them. 

His woi’ds had put an end to her fears. 

“ I must ask 3’ou to make a few little sacrifices,” he 
continued, releasing his hands and laying a kiss on 
her brow. “ I have found a handsome apartment in 
the rue Plumet, on the first floor, quite suitable, with 
elegantly carved woodwork, and costing onlj" fifteen 


184 


Cousin Bette. 


hundred francs a month. You would need onl}' one 
woman, and I can manage with one man.” 

“ Yes, Hector.” 

“By living simpW — though keeping up appearances 
of course — you needn’t spend more than six thousand 
francs a year, not counting mj^ personal wants which 
I shall take upon myself to provide for.” 

The generous woman threw her arms round his neck. 

“ What happiness to be able to prove m3’ love for 
you!” she cried. “How wise, how full of resources 
you are ! — ” 

“ Once a week we will receive the famil}’ ; on other 
days, 3’ou know, I seldom dine at home. You can verj’ 
well dine twice a week with Victorine without compromis- 
ing your dignit}^ and twice with Hortense ; then, as I 
think I can make up m3" quarrel with Crevel, we can dine 
once a week with him ; these five dinners and our fam- 
ily gathering at home will almost fill the week, without 
counting outside invitations — ’ 

“ I can economize,” said Adeline. 

“ Ah ! ” cried he, “ 3’ou are the pearl of wives.” 

“ M3" good and precious Hector ! I shall bless 3’ou with 
m3" last breath,” she answered, “ for 3’ou have given m3' 
Hortense a happy future.” 

This was how the home and support of the beautiful 
Madame Hulot began to dwindle ; and it was, let us 
add, the first step in the total abandonment of the wife 
solemnl3" promised to the mistress. 

Crevel, who was of course invited to the signing of 
the marriage contract behaved as though the scene 
with which this history opened had never taken place, 
and as if he had no cause of anger against Baron 


Cousin Bette, 


185 


Hulot. Celestin Crevel was good-natured ; he was al- 
waj’s rather too much of an ex-perfumer, but he was 
now endeavoring to rise to the majestic in honor of his 
elevation as major of the Legion. He even talked of 
dancing at the wedding. 

“ Dear lad}",” he said gracefully to Madame Hulot, 
‘‘people in our position know how to forget; do not 
banish me from your home, and deign to embellish 
mine by dining there occasionally with our children. 
Do not fear; I will never again express the feelings 
which lie in the depths of my heart. I behaved like 
a fool ; for I lose too much by forcing you to avoid 
me — ” 

“ Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such 
speeches as those to which you allude. If you keep 
your word, you need not doubt the pleasure with which 
I shall welcome the end of a quarrel, — always very 
painful in a family.” 

“ Well, old grumbler ! ” cried Baron Hulot, carrying 
Crevel forcibly into the garden. “You avoid me every- 
where, even in my own house. Why should two ama- 
teurs of the fair sex quarrel about a petticoat ? Bah ; 
it is positively vulgar.” 

“ Monsieur, not being a handsome man like your- 
self, my powers of seduction do not enable me to repair 
my losses as easily as you appear to do — ” 

‘ ‘ Sarcasm, hey ? ” cried the baron. 

“Allowable against conquerors when a man is 
vanquished.” 

The conversation, begun on this tone, ended in a 
complete reconciliation ; but Crevel, nevertheless, held 
firm to his private intentions of revenge. 


186 


Counn Bette, 


Madame Marneffe wished to be invited to the mar- 
riage of Mademoiselle Hulot. To admit his future mis- 
tress into his wife’s salon the baron was obliged to ask 
all the clerks of his division and their wives. A grand 
ball thus became a necessit}'. Like a true housekeeper, 
Madame Hulot calculated that an evening part}" would 
cost less than a grand dinner and would enable them to 
receive more people. The marriage therefore made 
much noise in societ}". 

The Marechal Prince of Wissembourg and the Baron 
de Nucingen were the witnesses for the bride ; Comte 
Eugene de Kastignac and Comte Popinot for Steinbock. 
After the latter grew famous the most illustrious mem- 
bers of the Polish emigration sought him out. The 
Council of State ; the department of the government 
in which the baron was a director ; and the arm}", wish- 
ing to honor the Comte de Forzheim, were all repre- 
sented b}" distinguished members. At least two hundred 
invitations were solicited. We can therefore understand 
Madame Marneffe’s anxiety to ?ippear in all her glory 
at such a party. 

The baroness sold her diamonds for the furnish- 
ing of her daughter’s home, reserving only the finest for 
the wedding outfit. The sale brought twenty thousand 
francs, of which five thousand were spent on the trous- 
seau, — what were the remaining fifteen thousand for 
the furnishing of the new house, when we reflect upon 
the requirements of modern luxury? But Monsieur 
and Madame Hulot junior, Crevel and the Comte de 
Forzheim had severally made important presents ; and 
the old uncle still held in reserve a largq sum for the 
purchase of silver plate. Thanks to such help, the most 


Cousin Bette, 


187 


exacting Parisian woman would have been satisfied with 
the household of the new pair in the pretty apartment 
chosen in the rue Saint-Dominique near the esplan- 
ade of the Invalides. All was in keeping with the 
fresh young love of the young couple, so pure, so frank, 
so true on either side. 

The great da}' arrived ; and it was to be a great day 
for others beside Hortense and Wenceslas. Madame 
Marneffe, invited to be present at the marriage, in- 
tended to give a house-warming in the rue Vanneau on 
the morrow. 

Is there any one who has not in the course of his 
life been present at a wedding ball ? Every one can 
tax his memory and smile as he evokes recollections 
of those gayly dressed individuals whose countenances 
are made gay to match their wedding garments. If 
any social fact ever proved the influence of environ- 
ment it is the spectacle of a wedding fete. The smart- 
ness of some reacts so much on others that persons 
accustomed to wear appropriate clothing seem to be- 
long to the catego^’y of those for whom a wedding is 
a marked event in their lives. Who does not remember 
the grave elderly men, so indifferent to the scene that 
they wear their ordinary black coats ; the old mar- 
ried people, whose faces betray a sad experience of 
the life the young ones are about to begin ; the 
pleasures which effervesce, like the carbonic acid gas 
of champagne ; the envious young girls, the mar- 
ried women preoccupied with their toilets, the poor 
relations whose scanty adornments contrast with those 
of the people in gold lace, the gourmands who think 
only of their supper, and the players with their minds 


188 


Cousin Bette. 


on the card-table ? Everybody" is there, — the rich and 
the poor, the envious and the envied, the philosophers 
and the fools, — all grouped like plants in a basket 
round a central rare flower, the bride. A wedding ball 
is societ}' in miniature. 

At the liveliest moment of all Crevel took the baron 
by the arm, and w^hispered in his ear in the most natu- 
ral manner in the world, “Bless my soul ! what a pretty 
little woman that is in pink ! — the one over there who 
is stabbing j’ou with her e^’es ! ” 

“Who?” 

“ The wife of that sub-director 3’ou are pushing along, 
heaven knows how, — Madame Marneffe.” 

“ How do you know that? ” 

“ Come, Hulot, I ’ll forgive all your wrongs to me if 
you will present me in her house, and I ’ll let you come 
to Heloise Brisetout’s. Everj'body is asking who that 
charming creature is. Are you sure that none of 3’our 
clerks whom I see here will tell how the appointment of 
her husband came about? Oh, 3’ou luck}’ scamp! She 
is worth a good many appointments. Come, let ’s be 
friends, Cinna.” 

“ Better friends than ever,” said the baron to the 
perfumer; “and I’ll promise to do 3’ou a good turn. 
In less than a month I ’ll ask you to dinner with m3* 
little angel; for we have got to the angel point, old 
fellow. I advise 3*011 to do like me, — give up the 
demons.” 

Cousin Bette, installed in a prett}* little apartment 
on the third floor in the me Vanneau, left the ball at 
ten o’clock, and came home to look at the two certifi- 
cates of stock which w^ere to yield her twelve hundred 


Cousin Bette, 


189 


francs a year ; the life-interest only being hers, Crevel’s 
money reverting to Madame Hulot junior, and Adeline’s 
to the Comtesse Steinbock. It is easy to guess how 
Crevel obtained the information about Madame Mar- 
neffe which he mentioned to the baron. Monsieur 
Marneffe being absent, no one knew this secret affair 
except cousin Bette, Hulot, and Valerie. 

The baron had committed the great imprudence of 
presenting Madame Marneffe with a ball-dress far too 
elegant and costl}^ for the wife of a sub-official; the 
other women were instantly jealous of her beauty and 
her clothes. Mutterings were heard behind the fans ; 
for Marneffe’s poverty was a matter of common talk 
among his fellow- clerks, — in fact, the husband was 
begging for help at the very time when the baron fell 
in love with the wife. Moreover, Hector had not been 
able to conceal his delight at Valerie’s social success. 
Elegant in appearance, quiet and demure in mann^, 
she underwent that minute scrutiny which many women 
dread on their first entrance into societ3\ 

After putting his wife and daughter and son-in-law 
into a carriage, the baron managed to escape from the 
ball-room without being missed, leaving his son and 
daughter-in-law to pla}’ the part of hosts. He got into 
Madame Marneffe’s carriage and went home with her 
to the rue Vanneau ; but on the wa}" he found her pen- 
sive and silent, almost sad. 

“ Does m3’ happiness grieve 3’ou, Valerie? ” he said, 
drawing her to him in the carriage. 

“Ah, m3^ friend, can 3’ou not understand that a poor 
woman must be sad at committing her first error, even 
though the shameful conduct of her husband ma3’ have 


190 


Cousin Bette. 


freed her? Do 3’ou think I am without soul, without 
beliefs, without religion? You showed such indiscreet 
jo3" this evening, — 3’ou have held me up in such an 
odious light, — wh}-, a collegian would have shown more 
decency than j’ou ! All those ladies tore me to pieces 
with their e^^es and their tongues. There is no woman 
who does not care for her reputation ; and 3'ou have 
destroyed mine. Ah, I am indeed 3 ours ! and nothing 
can now excuse m3" error but m3^ fidelit3^ Monster ! ” 
she exclaimed, laughing, and letting him embrace her, 
“ you knew very well what 3"Ou were about. Madame 
Coquet, the wife of the head-director, sat down b3" me 
to admire my lace. ‘ It is English point,* she said ; ‘did 
it cost much, madame ?* ‘ I reall3" don’t know,’ I replied ; 
‘ it belonged to m3" mother ; I am not rich enough to 
buy such things.’ ” 

Madame Marneffe had contrived to so bewitch the 
old beau of the empire that he reall3' believed she 
was committing her first error, and that he himself in- 
spired her with such love as to make her forget her 
duty. She told him Marneffe had virtuall3" aban- 
doned her three da3"s after their marriage ; from that 
time she had remained a virtuous young girl, perfectly 
content and happy, because she regarded marriage as 
an odious thing. The situation, she admitted, was a 
sad one. 

“If love were the same as marriage!” she said, 
weeping. 

These coquettish lies, which most women in Valerie’s 
situation are in the habit of telling, dangled the roses 
of the seventh heaven before the baron’s e3'es. 

Earl3" in the morning, the baron, at the height of 


Cousin Bette. 


191 


happiness, having found his Valerie the most innocent 
of 3’oung girls and the most consummate of demons, 
returned to relieve Monsieur and Madame Hulot junior 
of their dut^^ as hosts. The dancers, mostlj’ strangers 
to the family’, who often take complete possession of a 
house on the occasion of a wedding, were still in the 
mazes of that wearisome dance called the “ cotillion,” 
the plaj’ers were still at the card-table, and old Crevel 
had won six thousand francs. 

The newspapers of the following da^" contained this 
item : — 

“ The marriage of Monsieur le Comte de Steinbock and 
Mademoiselle Hortense Hulot, daughter of Baron Hulot 
d’Ervy, councillor of state, and director in the ministry of 
War, took place this morning at the church of Saint Thomas 
d’Aquin. The ceremony was witnessed by a large company, 
among them several of our artistic celebrities, — Leon de 
Lora, Joseph Bridau, Stidmann, Bixiou ; also the notabil- 
ities of the War office, and the most distinguished members 
of the Polish emigration, Comte Paz, Comte Lagiiiski, etc. 

“ Monsieur le Comte Wenceslas de Steinbock is the great 
nephew of the celebrated general of Charles the Twelfth, 
king of Sweden. Having taken part in the Polish insur- 
rection, the young count sought refuge in France, where the 
fame of his genius has naturalized him among us.” 


Thus, in spite of Baron Hulot’s terrible financial 
straits, nothing that public opinion demands was want- 
ing to the marriage of his daughter, not even the no- 
toriet}’ given by newspapers. The celebration was in 
ever}’ respect equal to that of the marriage of Hulot 
junior with Mademoiselle Crevel. This fete lessened the 


192 


Cousin Bette, 


talk which was current about the councillor’s financial 
difficulties, and the dot given to his daughter explained 
the necessity he was under of borrowing money. 

Here ends what may be called the introduction to 
this history. What has now been related is to the 
drama which completes it like the premises of a propo- 
sition or the argument of a Greek tragedy. 












/ 


Cousin Bette, 


193 


CHAPTER XV. 

ASSETS OF THE FIRM' BETTE AND VALERIE MARNEFFE 

ACCOUNT. 

When a Parisian married woman is determined to 
make merchandise of her beauty it does not follow that 
she makes her fortune. We sometimes meet remark- 
able women of brilliant intelligence in frightful poverty, 
ending in miser}'^ a life begun in pleasure ; and the rea- 
son is that the intention of following a disgraceful life 
for the sake of its profits under the guise of an honest 
married woman is not all that is required. Vice does 
not win its triumphs easily ; it so far resembles genius 
that it needs a concurrence of fortunate circumstances 
to bring it to a climax of success. Do away with the 
strange preceding phases of the Revolution and the 
Emperor would never have existed ; he would have 
been a second edition of Fabert. Venal beauty with- 
out adorers, without celebrity, without the badge of 
dishonor given by dissipated fortunes, is like Correg- 
gio in a garret, — genius neglected and expiring. The 
Parisian Lais must therefore find some man rich enough 
to pay her price. She must also maintain a constant 
and extreme elegance about her, for it is in fact her 
banner ; she must have the manners of good-breeding 
to flatter a man’s self-love, the wit of Sophie Arnould 
13 


/ 


194 


Cousin Bette. 


to rouse the apatbj^ of opulence, and she must make 
each libertine desire her by seeming faithful to a single 
one, whose happiness then becomes the envy of all. 

These conditions, which that class of women call 
their “ chances,” are difficult to realize, altliough Paris 
is a city of millionnaires, of men of leisure, idle, blase, 
and full of caprices. Providence appears to have spe- 
cially protected in this respect the homes of the lower 
middle classes, for whom such obstacles are greatlj' in- 
creased by the surroundings in which they revolve. Nev- 
ertheless, there is many a Madame Marneffe in Paris, 
— enough to justify our making Valerie a t3’pe in this 
history of the manners and customs of France. Some 
women of this class are instigated by real passion as 
well as bj’ povertj^, — like Madame Colleville, who was 
so long attached to one of the greatest orators of 
the Left, the banker Keller ; others are led solel}' by 
vanity, like Madame de la Baudraj’e, who always con- 
tinued semi-virtuous, notwithstanding her flight with 
Lousteau. Some are carried awa}^ hy a love of dress ; 
others b}" the impossibilit}" of keeping up appearances 
on insufficient means. Perhaps we majr sa}" that the 
parsimonj’ of the State and the Chambers has caused 
mau}^ such evils, and given birth to great corruptions. 
The world is fllled at the present moment with pity for 
the condition of the working-classes. The}’ are repre- 
sented as throttled by the manufacturers ; but the State 
is ten times more cruel than the most grasping capi- 
talist. In the matter of salaries it pushes economy to 
the verge of folly. If a man works well, emplo}'ers will 
pay him for his work ; but what does the State do 
for the vast crowd of its obscure and faithful toilers ? 


Cousin Bette, 


195 


To leave the path of virtue is an inexcusable crime 
in a married woman ; 3’et there are degrees of crime in 
the situation. Some women, far from being absolutely 
depraved, hide their errors and remain respectable in 
appearance, like the two we have just named ; while 
others add to their crime the shamelessness of spec- 
ulation. Madame Marneffe is the t3q)e of those am- 
bitious married courtesans who from the start adopt 
depravit3" with all its consequences, and resolve to make 
their fortune while amusing themselves, without scru- 
ple as to the means emplo3’ed. Such women usualh* 
have, like Madame Marneffe, deco3"s and accomplices 
in their husbands. These Machiavellis in petticoats 
are the most dangerous of their sex, and of all the evil 
species of Parisian Woman they are the worst. Courte- 
sans like the Josephas, the Schontzes, the Malagas, and 
the Jenn3" Cadines bear on their person a frank adver- 
tisement of their trade, as luminous as the red lan- 
tern of prostitution or the argand lamps of a gambling 
hell. A man knows when he sees them that he is going 
to his ruin. But soft-spoken decency, the semblance 
of virtue, the h3’pocritical affectations of the married 
woman who lets nothing be seen but the common house- 
hold wants, who apparently sets her face against im- 
prudence, lead men to a ruin that has none of the 
excitements of show, and is all the more strange be- 
cause the man, though he may excuse his folly, can 
never explain it to himself. It is a shameful account 
of extravagance and expense, without the jo3"ous intox- 
ications that make a man a spendthrift. The father of 
a famil3’ ruins himself without meretricious fame or the 
consolations of gratified vanity. 


196 


Cousin Bette, 


This allocution will strike like an arrow to the heart 
of many families. There are Madame Marneffes in all 
conditions of social life, even in the midst of courts ; 
for Valerie is a sad realitj*, drawn from life in ever}’ 
detail. Unhappily, this portrait will cure no man’s 
mania for angels with soft smiles, pensive glances, art- 
less faces, and hearts that are money-bags. 

About three years after the marriage of Hortense, — 
that is, in 1841, — Baron Hulot d’Ervy was supposed 
in the eyes of the world to have reformed, and yet 
Madame Marneffe was costing him twice as much as 
Jos^pha had ever done. Valerie, however, though al- 
wa 3 ’s well dressed, affected the simple habits of a woman 
married to a government employe ; she kept all her lux- 
uiy for her own apartment and her personal adornment 
at home. She sacrificed her Parisian vanities to her 
dear Hector ; but whenever she did go to the theatre 
it was always in a pretty new bonnet and a dress of 
the choicest elegance ; the baron took her there in a 
carriage, and provided one of the best boxes. 

The apartment in the rue Vanneau, which occupied 
the whole of the second floor of a large modern house 
standing between the court 3 'ard and garden, had an air 
of the utmost respectabilit}’. Its luxur}’ was nothing 
more than chintz hangings and handsome, convenient 
furniture. The bedroom, however, was exceptional, and 
displa 3 ’ed an extravagance dear to the Jenny Cadines 
and the Schontzes, — lace curtains, cashmeres, broca- 
telle portieres, chimne}’ ornaments made from designs 
b}’ Stidmann, a little etagere crowded with treasures, — 
for Hulot did not choose to put his Valerie in a nest 


Cousin Bette. 


197 


inferior in magnificence to the lair of gold and pearls 
of a Josepha. The two principal rooms — a dining- 
room and salon — were modestly furnished, the one in 
red damask, the other in carved oak. But at the end 
of six months, the baron, led away by the desire to 
have everything in keeping, added ephemeral luxury to 
this plain elegance, such as pieces of costl}^ furniture 
and a silver dinner service costing twentj^-four thousand 
francs. 

In two years Madame Marneffe’s house acquired the 
reputation of being very agreeable. Cards were played 
there. Valerie herself was held to be witty and amiable, 
and a rumor was spread, to justify the change in her 
mode of living, that a large legacy from her “ natural 
father,” Marechal Montcornet, had been paid to her 
by a trusted agent with whom he had privately left it. 
With an eye to the future, Valerie added religious cant 
to social hypocris3^ Punctilious in her Sunda}’ observ- 
ances, she got the credit of piet3\ She collected mone3" 
in church, became one of the almoners, carried the com- 
munion bread, and did some little good in the parish 
with Hector’s mone3^ Everything about her establish- 
ment was proper. Man3^ persons spoke of the purit3^ 
of her connection with the baron, — an old man, they 
said, and one with a platonic liking for the bright spirit, 
the charming manners, and the conversation of Madame 
Marneffe, a liking like that of the late Louis XVIII. for 
a well-phrased note. 

The baron alwa3’s left the house with the rest of the 
compan3’ at midnight, and returned half an hour later. 
The preservation of the secret is thus explained : 
The porters of the house were Monsieur and Madame 


198 


Cousin Bette. 


Olivier, who by the influence of the baron — a friend of 
the proprietor in search of a concierge — had passed 
from their humble and unproductive position in the rue 
du Doyenne to the more lucrative and pretentious lodge 
in the rue Vanneau. Now, Madame Olivier, formerh’ 
ling ere in the household of Charles X., having, as she 
expressed it, fallen from that position with the legiti- 
mate branch, was the mother of three children. The 
eldest, an under-clerk in a notaiy’s oflSce, was the ob- 
ject of his parents’ fervent adoration. This Benjamin, 
threatened by the conscription for the last five years, 
was just about to have his brilliant career cut short 
when Madame Marneffe got him exempted from mili- 
tary service by reason of a physical defect such as the 
examiner of recruits can be made to discover when 
some official power whispers in his ear. Olivier — 
formerly groom in the stables of Charles X. — and his 
spouse would henceforth have sacrificed all mankind on 
the altar of Baron Hulot and Madame Marneffe. 

What could the world, ignorant of the episode of 
the Brazilian, Monsieur Montez de Montejanos, say 
against this establishment? Nothing. Society is al- 
ways friendl}" to the mistress of a salon where it can 
amuse itself. Madame Marnefle added to her other 
charms that of being supposed to possess occult pow- 
ers. For this reason Claude Vignon, now secretary to 
the Marcchal Prince de Wissembourg, who aspired to 
belong to the Council of State in the capacit}" of mas- 
ter of petitions, became a constant visitor at her house. 
There were, besides, a good many deputies who lived 
well and pla3*ed high. Madame Marneffe made up her 
social circle with judicious slowness and deliberation ; 


Cousin Bette. 


199 


sets were carefully formed among persons of like opin- 
ions and manners, all interested in maintaining the 
merits and charms of the mistress of the salon. Social 
cliqueism — remember this axiom — is the Holy Alli- 
ance of Paris. Interests alwa3’s end by dividing men ; 
but their vices bind them together. 

Three months after Madame Marneffe was estab- 
lished in the rue Vanneau she received Monsieur 
Crevel, now maj^or of his arrondissement and officer 
of the Legion of honor. Crevel hesitated over his 
advancement for some time. It was necessary" to give 
up that precious uniform of the National Guard in 
which he strutted at the Tuileries feeling himself as 
military as the Emperor ; but ambition, tickled b^" Ma- 
dame Marneffe, was stronger than vanity. Monsieur 
le maire now considered his relations with Mademoi- 
selle Heloise Brisetout incompatible with his political 
situation. In fact, some time before his accession to 
the throne of the ma3’oralt}" his gallantries had been 
wrapped in profound mystery. But he had, as the 
reader ma3" now guess, paid for the right to take his 
revenge on the baron for the loss of Josepha, as often 
as he pleased, by an investment in the Funds 3ield- 
ing six thousand francs a 3"ear, placed in the name 
of Valerie Fortin, wife, separated as to propert3', of 
the Sieur Marneffe. Valerie, probably inheriting from 
her mother the particular genius of a kept mistress, 
had guessed at a glance the character of her grotesque 
adorer. The remark Crevel had let drop to Lisbeth, 
‘‘I never had a well-bred woman,” which the latter 
repeated to her dearest Valerie, was largely discounted 
jn the transaction by which Madame Marneffe got her 


200 


Counn Bette. 


six thousand francs in the Funds. Since then she had 
been careful not to let her prestige diminish in the eyes 
of the former commercial traveller of Cesar Birotteau. 

Crevel had made a marriage of convenience with 
the daughter of a miller of La Brie, an only daugh- 
ter, whose inheritance reall}" made up three-fourths of 
his fortune ; for retail dealers make their money less in 
their business than by such rustic connections. Very 
man}’ farmers, millers, grain and provision dealers in 
the neighborhood of Paris dream of the glories behind 
a counter for their daughters, and see in some retail- 
shopkeeper, a jeweller, or money-changer a son-in-law 
more after their own hearts than notaries or lawj’ers, 
whose superior position makes them uneas}" ; they are 
afraid of being despised, later, by those leaders of the 
bourgeoisie. Madame Crevel, a rather ugly woman, 
ver}- vulgar and ver}" sill}’, and who died in good sea- 
son, had never given her husband any other pleasures 
than those of paternity. At the beginning of his com- 
mercial career, Crevel, naturally a libertine, shackled 
by the duties of his position and restrained by pov- 
erty, had played the part of Tantalus. In “ relations,” 
to use his own expression, with the most distinguished 
women in Paris, who bought their perfumes at the 
“ Queen of Koses,” he took them out to their carriages 
with the obsequiousness of a shopkeeper, admiring their 
grace, their way of wearing their clothes, and all the 
unnamable charms of what is called race. To rise to 
the level of one of these fairies of social life was a de- 
sire conceived in youth and long buried within his soul. 
To win the favors of Madame Marneffe was to him 
not only the realization of his dream, but also the grati- 


Cousin Bette, 


201 


ficatioii of his pride, vanity, self-love, and vengeance, 
as we have seen. His ambition rose with success. He 
felt enormous delights of mind ; and when the mind 
enjoys, and the heart echoes the enjoyment, pleasures 
are doubled. Madame Marnetfe offered rare charms 
which Crevel had never hitherto suspected ; Josepha and 
Heloise never loved him, whereas Madame Marneffe 
thought it judicious to befool him on that point, for his 
purse appeared to be inexhaustible. The deceptions 
of venal love are often more charming than reality. 
True love is given to quarrels, like those of sparrows, 
which sometimes strike to the quick ; but a quarrel in 
jest is only a sop thrown to the vanit}^ of a dupe. He 
was constant!}’ brought up against the virtuous reluc- 
tance of his Valerie, who played remorse and talked of 
what her father must think of her in the paradise of the 
brave. He was continually forced to vanquish a cer- 
tain coldness over which the clever trickster made him 
believe that he had triumphed. She seemed to yield 
to the mad passion of the ex-shopkeeper and then, as 
if ashamed, she resumed, like an Englishwoman, the 
pride of a decent woman and the stiffness of virtue, 
crushing her Crevel with the weight of her dignity ; for 
he was really taken in to suppose her virtuous. She 
possessed, moreover, special faculties for 'tenderness, 
which made her as indispensable to Crevel as to Hulot. 
Before the world she exhibited an enchanting union of 
simple and pensive modesty, irreproachable propriety 
of conduct, and wit enhanced by the charm and grace 
and manners of a Creole ; but when it came to a tete-a- 
tete she went far beyond a courtesan, — she was droll, 
amusing, and fertile in new inventions. This contrast 


202 


Cousin Bette, 


was delightful to an individual of the genus Crevel. 
He was flattered believing himself the inspirer 
of the comedy ; he thought it played for his sole ben- 
efit, and he laughed at the delightful hypocrisy of the 
actress. 

Valerie had lately adapted the baron admirably to his 
present position. She made him show his age by one of 
those delicate flatteries which serve to show the diabolic 
cleverness of such women. In organizations long ex- 
empt from the inroads of age a moment comes when, 
like a besieged city which has long held out, the real 
weakness declares itself. Foreseeing the approaching 
decadence of the ex-imperial beau, Valerie saw fit to 
hasten it. 

“ Why do you pinch yourself in, old man?” she said 
six months after their clandestine and doubly adulter- 
ous marriage. “Do 3’ou intend to be faithless to me? 
I like you much better not laced up. Please sacrifice 
,your artificial graces to my feelings. Do you think the 
two sous’ worth of varnish on your boots, or that india- 
rubber belt, and the buckram waistcoat, and the patch 
of false hair on j'our head, is what I love in 3^00 ? Be- 
sides, the older you are the less I shall fear a rival.” 

Believing as firmly in the divine friendship as in the 
love of Madame Marnefle, with whom he expected to 
end his da3’s, the baron followed her advice, and ceased 
to d3"e his hair and beard. On receiving this touch- 
ing acknowledgment of his Valerie’s jealousy, the hand- 
some Hulot appeared one fine day with a blanched head. 
Madame Marneffe had no difficult3" in persuading her 
dear Hector that she had alread3’ seen the white line 
formed by the growth of his hair a score of times. 


Cousin Bette, 


203 


“ White hair is admirably becoming to j^oiir face,’* 
she said, gazing at him ; “ it softens your features ; 3’ou 
are infinitely handsomer ; you are charming.” 

The baron, once launched in this direction, cast off his 
leather waistcoat and corset, and got rid of his vari- 
ous straps. This done, his stomach dropjDed down 
and obesity declared itself. The oak became a round 
tower, and the heaviness of his movements was the 
more alarming because the baron grew unexpectedly 
old after assuming the part of Louis XII. His eye- 
brows remained black and dimly recalled the late hand- 
some Hulot, just as a fragment of sculpture remains on 
feudal walls to show what the castle once was in its 
palmy days. This contrast made the glance of his eye^ 
still keen and youthful, all the more singular, coming 
as it did from the withered face lately painted with 
the colors of Rubens, where certain scars and length- 
ened wrinkles now appeared, revealing the struggles of 
passion in rebellion against the verdict of nature. Hu- 
lot was henceforth one of those human ruins in which 
virility shows in hairy tufts on the nose, ears, fingers, 
producing the same effect as the lichen on the well-nigh 
eternal monuments of the Eternal City. 

It may be asked how Valerie contrived to keep 
Hulot and Crevel peaceably at her side when the vin- 
dictive major was longing for a startling triumph over 
Hulot. Without making any direct repty to a question 
which will be answered in the sequel, it may be said 
that Bette and Valerie had invented between them a 
stupendous machine whose powerful action aided this 
result. Marneffe, beholding his wife much embellished 
by the surroundings in which she now reigned, like the 


204 


Cousin Bette. 


sun in the sidereal system, was made to appear to the 
ej’es of others once more infatuated about her and con- 
sequently jealous. When this jealousy caused Mon- 
sieur Marnetfe to put himself in the way, Valerie’s 
favors became of course more precious. Marneffe, how- 
ever, seemed to place confidence in his director, though 
it sometimes degenerated into a fawning compliance 
which was half ridiculous. The one who displeased 
him was invariably Crevel. 

Marneffe, destroyed by debaucheries of every kind, 
had grown as hideous as an anatomical wax figure. 
Walking disease as he was, he nevertheless appeared in 
handsome coats, with his tottering laths of legs incased 
in elegant trousers, and his withered breast covered 
with spotless perfumed linen which concealed the fetid 
odors of his person. The hideousness of vice at its 
last gasp, and arrayed in the pink of fashion, — for 
Valerie dressed MarneflTe in keeping with her own 
fortune, — horrified Crevel, who was unable to bear the 
look in the glazing eyes of the subdirector. Discover- 
ing the curious power with which Lisbeth and his wife 
had invested him, the scoundrel amused himself by em- 
ploying it; he played it like an instrument; cards 
being the last resource of this soul, as worn-out as the' 
body that held it, he plucked Crevel, who felt himself 
obliged, as he said, to ‘‘knock under” to the man he 
thought he was deceiving. 

Seeing Crevel so submissive to the hideous and in- 
famous mummy whose corruption he seemed to ignore, 
and hearing Valerie express the utmost contempt for 
the ex-perfumer, laughing at him as one laughs at a 
buffoon, the baron thought himself so safe from all 


Cousin Bette, 205 

rivalry that he constantly invited his successful rival to 
dinner. 

Valerie, guarded hy two passions standing sentinel 
beside her and by the semblance of a jealous husband, 
attracted all eyes, and excited all desires in the circle 
where she reigned. Thus it was that she had come in 
less than three years (all the while keeping up ap- 
pearances) to realize the most difficult conditions of a 
courtesan’s success, a success which the latter seldom 
attains even by the help of scandal, audacity, and the 
notoriety of her life in open day. Like a diamond ex- 
quisitely set by Chanor, Valerie’s beaut}’, formerl}" buried 
in the rue du Doyenne, was now estimated above its 
actual value, and she had several aspiring lovers ; 
among them Claude Vignon, who secretly loved her. 

This retrospective explanation, very necessary when 
we meet people after a lapse of three 3 'ears, may be 
called the schedule of the Valerie account. Now for 
that of her associate, Lisbeth Fischer. 


206 


Coudn Bette. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Assets of the firm Bette and Valerie — Fischer 
Account. 

Cousin Bette's position in the Marneffe establish- 
ment was that of a poor relation combining the func- 
tions of companion and housekeeper ; but she met with 
none of the humiliations which, as a general thing, are 
the lot of women unfortunate enough to be forced into 
accepting such anomalous positions. Lisbeth and V alerie 
presented the spectacle of one of those rare friendships 
and so little probable among women that Frenchmen, 
always too witty and wise, instantly ridicule them. 
The contrast between the hard and virile nature of 
the Lorraine peasant-woman and the soft Creole tem- 
perament of Valerie seemed to justify such scepticism. 
Madame Marneffe, however, had lately given proofs of 
her affection for her friend in a matrimonial matter, 
which was destined, as we shall see, to carry forward 
the old maid’s revenge. 

An immense change had taken place in Bette ; Valerie, 
who had chosen to superintend her toilette, effected 
marvels. The strange creature, submitting to corsets, 
.came out with a fine figure, smoothed her hair with 
bandoline, accepted her dresses just as the}’ were deliv- 
ered to her by the dress-maker, wore dainty boots and 
gray silk stockings ; all of which were charged in Va- 


Cousin Bette. 


207 


lerie’s bills and paid for by whoever the said bills might 
happen to concern. Thus restored, though still cling- 
ing to the yellow cashmere, Bette would have been un- 
recognizable to those who had only known her three 
years earlier. Like a black diamond, the rarest of all 
diamonds, cut and polished b}" a skilful hand and placed 
in a setting that became it, she was appreciated by 
certain ambitious clerks who perceived her real value. 
Whoever saw Bette for the first time shuddered invol- 
untarily at the aspect of barbaric poetiy which Valerie 
contrived to impart to the old maid’s person by the cul- 
tivation of her dress, and the art with which she framed 
the lean and olive face in heavj’ bandeaus of dark hair 
matching in color the brilliant e3’es, and forced the 
inflexible figure into lines of S3’mmetr3\ Bette, like a 
madonna of Cranach or Van E3’ck, or some B3'zantine 
virgin descending from her frame, had all the stiffness 
and angularit3' of those m3"sterious creations, cousins- 
german of Isis and the divinities cut in rock by the 
Eg3’ptian sculptors. She was basalt, granite, porph3T3", 
on two legs. Secure from want for the rest of her days, 
the poor relation was in fine good-humor, and brought 
gayet3^ to all the tables where she dined. The baron 
paid the rent of her little apartment, furnished, as we 
know, from the leavings of Valerie’s old bedroom. 
“Having begun life,” Bette said, “as a half-starved 
nanny-goat, I am ending it e 7 i lionne'' She still 
worked certain difficult bits of gold lace for Monsieur 
Rivet so as not to waste her time. There was little 
danger of that, however, for she was, as we shall see, 
extremely busy ; but she worked at her trade all the 
same because it is not in the nature of the French 


Cousin Bette, 


i:o8 

peasantry to lose the smallest chance of gain ; in this 
respect they are like Jews. 

Every clay, at dawn, cousin Bette went to market 
accompanied by the cook. Her purpose was to make 
the household expenses, which were ruining Baron Hulot? 
a source of wealth to Valerie, who did in fact save a 
great deal of money out of them. 

What mistress of a household since 1838 has not felt 
the fatal effects of those Socialist doctrines that are 
spread through the wage-classes by incendiary writers ? 
In ever}^ home the plague of servants is the worst of 
all financial sores. With rare exceptions (which merit 
the Montyon prize) cooks are domestic robbers, hired 
robbers, for whom the government has amiabl}’ made 
itself the receiver of stolen goods ; thus developing the 
tendency to theft already half-sanctioned among cooks 
by the well-worn jest on the “handle of the basket.’’ 
Where these women once filched forty sous for their 
lottery tickets they now take fifty francs for the savings 
bank. And the starched puritans who amuse them- 
selves by trying philanthropic experiments upon France 
believe they have improved the masses ! Between 
the markets and the tables of their emplo 3 ’ers these 
robbers have set up a secret custom-house, and the 
whole municipality is not so keen in exacting its dues, 
as the cooks of Paris in illicitly collecting theirs. Besides 
the fifty per cent which they subtract from the provisions, 
they demand large bribes from the dealers. The latter, 
even the best of them, are afraid of this secret power ; 
they pay what it asks without a word, — carriage-mak- 
ers, jewellers, tailors, each and all of them ! If an}^ one 
attempts to question these proceedings, the servants 


Cousin Bette, 


209 


reply insolently, or pretend stupidity; they make in- 
quiries about the character of their masters, just as for- 
merly the masters inquired about theirs. This evil, 
which seems to be reaching a climax and against which 
the courts are beginning to proceed (but in vain), will 
not disappear until a law is passed making servants* 
wages payable only on certificates, like those of work- 
men. The evil would then vanish as if by magic. Ser- 
vants would be compelled to produce their book of 
certificates, and their employers would be equally com- 
pelled to write down the reasons wh}^ they are dis- 
missed ; the general demoralization would thus be 
effectually curbed. People in high places have little 
idea of the depravity of the lower classes in Paris ; it 
almost equals their jealous}’ of those above them, a 
passion which is eating into their hearts. vStatistics are 
silent as to the enormous number of workmen not more 
than twenty years old who marry cooks of forty and 
fifty who have thus enriched themselves by theft. 
We may well shudder in thinking of the results of 
such marriages from the triple view of criminality, 
bastardism of the race, and wretched homes. As to the 
purely financial evil done by these domestic robbers, 
it is vast from a political point of view. The costs of 
living, thus doubled, deprive many families of super- 
fluities. Superfluity, what is it? — half the commerce 
of nations, and the ease and elegance of life. Books 
and flowers are as necessary as bread to a great many 
persons. 

Lisbeth, well aware of this open sore in Parisian 
households, intended to manage Valerie’s household 
when she offered her assistance in that terrible scene 
14 


210 


Cousin Bette, 


in which they swore to live together as sisters. She 
therefore sent to her native Lorraine for a relation 
on her mother's side, a pious old maid of extreme hon- 
esty, who was formerl}' cook to the Bishop of Nancj". 
Fearing, however, that in spite of her ignorance of Paris 
ways, bad advice might ruin the loyalty of this treasure, 
Lisbeth made a practice of accompanying Mathurine to 
market, and tried to teach her the art of bujlng. To 
know the proper price of everything and thus secure the 
seller’s respect, to choose the provisions in season (fish 
especially) when they are not too dear, to keep the run of 
th 6 markets and bu}" cheap foreseeing a rise, these are 
household qualities absolutely essential to domestic econ- 
om}' in Paris. As Mathurine received ver}" good wages 
and many presents she liked her place well enough to 
be glad to make bargains. So that for some time past 
she had rivalled Lisbeth, who thought her pupil suffi- 
ciently trained to release her from going to market except 
on the da3^s when Valerie had companj", which, we maj" 
add parentheticall3’, happened veiy often. The baron 
had begun b3’ observing the strictest decorum ; but his 
passion for Madame Marneffe became in a short time 
so eager and unsatisfied that he could scarcel3* bear to 
leave her. From dining at her house four times a week 
he grew to take that meal there every day. Six 
months after his daughter’s marriage he began to pa3" 
two thousand francs a month for his board. Madame 
Marneffe invited the persons whom her dear Hector de- 
sired to meet. The table was always laid for six, and 
the baron was at liberty to bring three unexpected 
guests. Lisbeth’s economy solved the extraordinary 
problem of keeping up this table luxuriously on one 


Cousin Bette. 


211 


thousand francs a month, leaving the other thousand 
for Madame Marneffe. Valerie’s dress being chiefly 
paid for by Crevel and the baron, she contrived to 
lay by another thousand a month from that source. 
And . thus it happened that in three years that pure 
and artless little woman had laid by a snug sum of 
over a hundred and fifty thousand francs. She accum- 
ulated her dividends from the Funds, adding them 
to her monthlj’ profits, increasing them still further bj^ 
the enormous gains which Crevel obtained for her by 
investing the capital of “ his little duchess ” in lucky 
financial operations. Crevel had initiated Valerie in 
the slang of business and the nature of transactions 
at the Bourse, and like all Parisian women she was 
soon more skilful than her master. Lisbeth, who never 
spent a penny of her twelve hundred francs, and whose 
board and lodging and clothes were all provided, so that 
she never even carried a purse of her own, had also laid 
by a little capital of five or six thousand francs, which 
Crevel was paternallj" nursing. 

The baron’s love and Crevel’s love were nevertheless 
an oppressive burden for Valerie to carry. The day on 
which this tale begins the little woman, excited bj' some 
one of those events which occasionally ring in our ears 
like the bell which calls up a swarm of bees, had gone 
to Lisbeth’s apartment to make her moan, with much 
volubility, after the fashion of women who soothe the 
lesser miseries of their life by smoking, as it were, with 
their tongues the cigarette of complaint. 

“ Lisbeth, my love ! this morning, two hours of 
Crevel ! it is enough to kill me ! Oh ! I wish you 
could take my place ! ” 


212 


Cousin Bette. 


“ Unfortunately I can’t,” said Lisbetb, laughing ; “1 
shall die a virgin.” 

‘ ‘ To belong to both those old men ! There are times 
when I ’m ashamed of m}- self, — Ah ! if m3" poor dear 
mother only saw me ! — ” 

“ Are 3"Ou taking me for Crevel?” said Lisbeth. 

“ Tell me, m3" dear little Bette, that 3"ou don’t despise 
me.” 

“ Ah! if I were as pretty as 3^ou I should have my 
adventures ! ” cried Lisbeth ; “ that’s m3" answer.” 

“ But you would have followed the dictates of 3"our 
heart,” said Madame Marneffe, sighing. 

“Bah!” replied Lisbeth, “Marneffe is a corpse 
they ’ve forgotten to buiy, the baron is 3"our husband, 
and Crevel your lover ; 3"Ou are onl3" doing like other 
women.” 

“No, but that isn’t it, m3" dearest; m3" sadness 
comes from something else, and you don’t choose to 
understand me.” 

“ Yes I do,” cried the peasant- woman, “ for the some- 
thing else is part of my revenge. Don’t be impatient ; 
I am bringing it about.” 

“ To love Wenceslas till I waste awa3", and 3"et 
never to see him!” exclaimed Valerie, stretching out 
her arms. “ Hulot asked him to come and dine here 
and he refused ! He does not know that I idolize 
him, — the wretch ! What ’s that wife of his? a pretty 
bit of flesh. Yes, she is handsome; but I — well, I 
feel it — I am something worse.” 

“Don’t worry yourself, my little girl, he’ll come,” 
said Lisbeth, speaking like a nurse to a fractious child, 
“ I shall manage it.” 


CouBin Bette* 


213 


“ But when? ” 

“ This week perhaps/’ 

“ Give me a kiss.” 

The two women were really one ; all Valerie’s actions, 
even her caprices, her pleasures, her sulks, were dis- 
cussed and adopted after mature deliberation between 
the pair. 

Lisbeth, strangely excited by the wanton life of her 
friend, advised Valerie in all her actions, pursuing the 
thread of her own vengeance with pitiless logic. More- 
over, she adored the woman whom she had made her 
daughter, her friend, her love ; she delighted in the 
soft Creole languor and obedience of this new idol ; she 
chattered to her dail}’ with more pleasure than she had 
ever derived from Wenceslas ; they laughed together 
at their mutual deviltr}*, at the folly of men, and counted 
up their growing gains and their respective fortunes. 
Lisbeth found in her schemes and in this new friendship 
a field for her native energ}' richer far than that which 
her crazy love for Wenceslas had given her. The 
enjoyments of hatred are the keenest and most power- 
ful of all. Love is the gold and hatred is the iron of 
that mine of sentiments which lie deep within us. But 
beside all this, Lisbeth found delight in Valerie’s beauty ; 
that beauty in full glory which she adored as we adore 
something we do not possess, a beauty far more amen- 
able than that of Wenceslas, which was always to a cer- 
tain degree frigid and unfeeling. 

At the end of three years Lisbeth was beginning 
to see the progress of the subterranean mine to which 
she was sacrificing her life and devoting her intel- 
lect. Bette thought and Madame Marne ffe acted. 


214 


Cousin Bette. 


Madame Marneffe was the axe, Bette the hand that 
wielded it, and the hand was striking down with rapid 
blows the family who grew more hateful to her day 
by day ; for we hate even as we love, daih^ more 
and more. Love and hatred are passions that feed 
upon themselves, and of the two hatred lives longest. 
Love is limited by restricted powers ; its forces are 
those of life and generosity; but hatred resembles 
death, or avarice ; it is, if we may say so, an opera- 
tive abstraction, acting outside of persons and events. 
Lisbeth had found the vocation that suited her and 
brought all her faculties into use ; she was at the helm 
of events like the Jesuits, with a species of occult 
power. The regeneration of her person kept pace 
with this development of her inner being. Her 
face shone. She dreamed of becoming Madame la 
Marechale Hulot. 

The foregoing scene in which the two friends crudely 
told each other their inmost thoughts, without the slight- 
est circumlocution of language, took place one morn- 
ing after Lisbeth had been to market to prepare for a 
choice dinner. Marnetfe wanted to obtain Monsieur 
Coquet’s place at the War office, and Valerie had in- 
vited that official, together with the virtuous Madame 
Coquet, hoping that the baron might negotiate his resig- 
nation that evening. Lisbeth was dressing to go to 
Madame Hulot’s, where she expected to dine. 

“ Come back in time to pour out tea, my Bette,’’ said 
Valerie. 

“ I will try to.” 

“Try to! you are not going to sleep with Adeline 
and drink in her tears while she sleeps, are 3'ou?” 


Cousin Bette. 


215 


“ Ah, if I only could ! ” answered Lisbeth, laughing ; 
“ she is expiating her happiness and I am comforted. 
I remember my miserable childhood. Every one has his 
day, she has had hers ; now she will be in the mud, and 
I — I shall be Comtesse de Forzheim ! 


216 


Cousin Bette. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

ASSETS OF THE LEGITIMATE WIFE. 

Lisbeth started for the rue Plumet, whither she went 
from time to time as we go to a theatre to feast our 
emotions. 

The apartment which Hulot had selected for his wife 
contained a large antechamber, a salon, dining-room, 
bedroom, and dressing-room. The dining-room adjoined 
the salon. Two servants’ rooms and a kitchen on the 
third floor completed the establishment, which was suit- 
able for a councillor of state and a distinguished member 
of the War department. The house itself, the courtyard 
and staircase, were handsome. The baroness, compelled 
to furnish her salon, bedroom, and dining-room with the 
relics of her former splendor, had taken the best articles 
from the old apartment in the rue de TUniversite. The 
poor woman loved those silent witnesses of her past hap- 
piness ; to her they had an eloquence that was half con- 
soling. She saw in the faded pattern of the carpets, 
scarcely visible to any e3’e but hers, the memory of other 
flowers of which they were the symbol. 

Whoever entered the vast antechamber, where a dozen 
chairs, a barometer, a large stove, and long curtains of 
white calico bordered with red recalled the barren wait- 
ing-room at a ministry, would have felt chilled to the 
heart at the thought of the blank solitude in which this 


Cousin Bette. 


217 


woman lived. Grief, like pleasure, makes an atmos- 
phere of its own. The first glance cast on a home re- 
veals to an observing eye the reign of love or of despair. 
Adeline was usually to be found in a vast bedroom, fur- 
nished with the fine work of Jacob Desmalters in dap- 
pled mahogany, decorated, in the stjde of the empire, 
with bronzes whose effect contrives to be even colder 
than that of the brasses of Louis XVI. Those who 
loved her shuddered to see the lonely woman sitting in a 
Roman chair, before a work-table adorned with sphinxes, 
all her color gone, affecting a false gayety, yet retaining 
her dignity of manner, just as she preserved the gown 
of dark blue velvet which she wore when at home. The 
proud, courageous soul supported the outward body and 
maintained its beauty. the close of the first year 
of her exile Madame Hulot had measured and accepted 
the full extent of her misfortune. 

“ In banishing me to this place,” she said to herself, 
“ my Hector has given me more than a simple peasant- 
woman had the right to expect. He requires me to live 
thus : his will be done ! I am the Baroness Hulot, sister- 
in-law of a marshal of France ; I have done no wrong ; 
my children are both well married ; I can await death, 
wrapped in the veil of a wife’s honor, — in the weeds 
or*my lost happiness I ” 

The portrait of Hulot, painted by Robert Lefebvre in 
1810, in the uniform of his rank in the Imperial Guard, 
hung above the work-table, where, on the announce- 
ment of a visitor, Adeline was wont to lock up a copy 
of the “ Imitation of Christ,” which she now read habit- 
uall3^ Pure and irreproachable, she listened like Mag- 
dalen for the voice of the Spirit in her wilderness. 


218 


Cousin Bette. 


“ Mariette, m3’ good girl,” said Lisbeth to the cook, 
who opened the door, “ how is m3’ dear Adeline?” 

“ Apparentl3’ well, mademoiselle; but between our- 
selves, if she persists in going on as she does she will 
kill herself,” whispered Mariette. “ You must persuade 
her to live better. For the last few da3^s madame has 
ordered me to give her two sous* worth of milk and a 
single roll for breakfast, and either a herring or a bit 
of cold veal for dinner. She has one pound of meat 
cooked to last a week, — for the da3’s on which she 
dines at home alone, I mean. She won’t spend more 
than ten sous a da3’ for her food. She is not reason- 
able. If I were to mention it to Monsieur le marechal 
he might get angry with Monsieur le baron and disin- 
herit him ; but 3’ou, who are so kind and so clever, 3’ou’ll 
know how to settle matters.” 

“ Why don’t you speak to the baron 3’ourself ?” asked 
Lisbeth. 

“Ah, my dear lad3’, nearly a month since he 
was here, — in fact, not since the last time you came. 
Besides, madame forbade me to ask mone3’ of monsieur, 
and threatened to dismiss me if I did. But oh ! what 
trouble the poor, dear lady is in ! This is the first time 
monsieur has neglected her quite so long. Ever3' time 
the porter’s bell rings she runs to the window ; for {lie 
last few da3^s she has scarce^ had strength to leave 
her chair. She sits and reads. When she goes to dine 
with Madame la comtesse she always says, ‘ Mariette, 
if monsieur comes, tell him I am at home, and send the 
porter after me at once ; sa3^ I will pa3’ him well.’ ” 

“My poor cousin!” said Bette; “it breaks my 
heart 1 I speak of her to the baron every day ; but 


Cousin Bette. 


219 


what good does that do? He replies: ‘You are right, 
Bette ; I know I ’m a villain. My wife is an angel, and I 
am a monster. I ’ll go to-morrow.’ And that ’s the end 
of it. He stays with Madame Marnetfe. That woman 
is ruining him ; but he worships her ; he can’t live out 
of her sight. I do what I can. If I were not there, and 
if I did n’t have Mathurine, the baron’s expenses would 
be double what they are. He is so pressed for money 
that he might have blown his brains out before now if I 
had not looked after matters ; and, Mariette, it would kill 
Adeline, — I know that. I try to keep things together, 
and prevent the baron from squandering everything.” 

“Ah ! that ’s what my poor mistress says. She knows 
her obligations to 3'ou,” answered Mariette. “ She told 
me once she had long misjudged you.” 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed Lisbeth. “ Did she say anything 
else?” 

“No, mademoiselle. If 3’ou want to give her pleas- 
ure, talk to her of monsieur. She thinks 3’ou so fortu- 
nate because 3’ou see him every day.” 

“ Is she alone? ” 

“ No ; the marechal is there. He comes ever^r daj^ 
and she always tells him she has seen Monsieur le baron 
in the morning, and that he won’t be in till late at night.” 

“Is tliere a good dinner to-day?” inquired Bette. 

Mariette hesitated, she evaded Bette’s glance, and at 
that moment the door of the salon opened and Marechal 
Hulot came through the antechamber so hastily- that he 
bowed to Bette without recognizing her, and as he did 
so he dropped some papers. Bette picked them up and 
ran to the stairway as if to return them, for it was 
useless to call to a deaf man ; but she mai^kged not to 


220 


Cousin Bette, 


overtake him, and came back still holding the papers, 
on which she furtively read what follows, written in 
pencil : — 

“My DEAR BROTHER, — My husband has given me the 
usual sum for my quarterly expenses ; my daughter Hortense 
was in such need of money that I lent it all to her, though 
it was scarcely enough to relieve her embarrassment. Can 
you lend me a few hundred francs? — for I don’t want to ask 
more of Hector; I could not bear that he should blame me.” 

“Ah!” thought Lisbeth, “she must be in gi’eat 
straits if her pride comes down to that.” 

Lisbeth entered Adeline’s room, caught her in tears, 
and sprang to kiss her. 

“Adeline, dear child, I know all,” said Bette. “ See, 
the marshal dropped this paper, he was so troubled, he 
was in such a hurr3^ That wretched Hector has not 
given you any money since — ” 

“He pa3’s it punctually,” said the baroness, “but 
Hortense needed some and — ” 

“ — and you have nothing to buy a dinner with ; I 
see it all,” said Bette, interrupting her. “Now I un- 
derstand Mariette’s embarrassment when I asked her 
about it. Don’t be a child, Adeline ; let me lend you 
my savings.” 

“ Thank j’^ou, my dear, good Bette,” answered Ade- 
line, wiping away her tears. “ This little trouble is 
onl}^ momentar}^ ; I have provided for the future. My 
expenses will only be twent3^-four hundred francs a year 
in future, including rent, and I shall have that sum. 
But say nothing to Hector, Bette. Is he well?” 

“ Well? I should think so ! as sound as the pont Neuf, 


Cousin Bette, 


221 


and as gay as a lark. He thinks of nothing but that 
Sorceress Valerie.” 

Madame Hulot looked at a great silver fir-tree which 
stood within range of the window, and Lisbeth was un- 
able to read the expression of her eyes. 

“ Did you remind him that this was the day we all 
dine together? ” asked Adeline, presently. 

“Yes, but Madame Marneffe gives a grand dinner 
at which she expects to get Coquet’s resignation, and 
he thinks that more important. Now, Adeline, listen 
to me ; you know mj^ rigid principles about indepen- 
dence. Your husband, m3" dear, will ruin 3’ou. I have 
tried to shield you from that woman, but she is utterl}" 
depraved, she can get things done by }"Our husband 
that will end, b}" disgracing 3"our name.” 

Adeline started as if a dagger had pierced her heart. 

“ My dear Adeline, I know it. Must I enlighten 
3"ou? Well, at any rate, we ought to think of the fu- 
ture ! The marshal is old, but he will live long ; he has 
a fine salary, and his widow, when he^ dies, will have a 
pension of six thousand francs. With that sum I could 
and would maintain you all. Use 3mur influence with 
him to make me his wife. It is not because I want to 
be Madame la marechale that I have thought of this, but 
to get bread for j’ou in the future. I see plainly that 
if 3^ou are giving Hortense all you have she must be in 
want.” 

The marshal entered at this moment ; the old soldier 
had done his errand so rapidly that he was mopping his 
forehead with a handkerchief. 

“ I have given two thousand francs to Mariette,” he 
whispered to his sister-in-law. 


222 


Cousin Bette, 


Adeline blushed to the roots of her hair. Tears 
hung on her e^^elashes, which were still long, and she 
silentlj’ pressed the hand of the old man, whose face ex- 
hibited a joj like that of a happ}" lover. 

“ I was thinking, Adeline, of spending that very sum 
on a present for you ; therefore, instead of returning it, 
3'ou must choose whatever you would like best.” 

He took the hand that Lisbeth held out to him, and 
kissed it, so absorbed was he in pleasant thoughts of 
what he had done. 

“ That is promising,” Adeline remarked to Lisbeth, 
smiling as much as she was now able to smile. 

Just then young Hulot and his wife appeared. 

‘‘ Does m}” brother dine at home?” asked the mar- 
shal in a curt tone. 

Adeline took a pencil and wrote on a little square of 
paper : — 

I expect him ; he promised to dine here to-day ; if 
he does not come he is detained at the War office ; he 
is overwhelmed with business.” 

She gave the paper to the marshal; it was her 
method of conversation with the old man, and a sup- 
ply of little squares of paper with a pencil were always 
ready on her work-table. 

“Yes, I know,” answered the marshal, “he has a 
great deal to attend to about Algiers.” 

Hortense and Wenceslas now arrived ; seeing the 
family assembled about her, the baroness glanced at 
the marshal with an expression whose meaning was lost 
on all but Lisbeth. 

Happiness had greatly improved the artist, who was 
adored by his wife, and flattered by society. His face 


Cousin Bette, 


223 


had filled out; his elegant figure set off the many 
advantages which blood bestows on a thorough-bred 
gentleman. His premature fame, and the misleading 
praises which society flings at an artist very much as 
we sa,y good-day or speak of the w^eather, had given 
him that consciousness of his own merits which degen- 
erates into conceit if real power leaves a man. The 
cross of the Legion of honor was in his eyes a crown- 
ing testimonial to the great genius which he believed 
himself to be. 

After three years of marriage Hortense, in her rela- 
tions with her husband, was very much what a dog is 
with his master ; she replied to all his movements with 
a look which seemed a question ; her eyes were ever on 
him as a miser looks at his gold ; her admiring self- 
abnegation was touching to see. The advice and 
example of her mother were noticeable in all her 
ways. Her beauty, as great as ever, was now height- 
ened, poeticall}^, by the soft shadows of an inward 
grief. 

As Lisbeth’s eyes encountered her young cousin, she 
fancied that some hidden plaint, long contained, was 
about to burst the frail bonds of discretion. Ever since 
the daj’s of the honeymoon Bette had been confident 
that the young household had too small an income to 
support so great a love. 

Hortense, as she kissed her mother, exchanged with 
her, from mouth to ear and from heart to heart, a few 
words whose meaning was betrayed to Bette by the 
movement of their heads. 

“Adeline is going to work, like me, for a living,” 
thought Bette. “I will make her tell me what she 


224 


Cousin Bette, 


means to do. Those pretty fingers have come at last, 
like mine, to hard labor.” 

At six o’clock the family went to dinner. The baron’s 
plate was laid. 

“Leave it,” said the baroness to Mariette. “Mon- 
sieur is often late.” 

“ My father is coming,” said young Hulot to his 
mother. “ He told me so as we left the Chamber.” 

Lisbeth, like a spider at the centre of her web, 
watched her victims. Knowing Hortense and Victorin 
from their birth, the faces of both were transparencies 
through which she could read their souls. From cer- 
tain glanc*es which Victorin cast furtively at his mother 
she felt certain that some misfortune was hanging over 
Adeline which her son hesitated to reveal. The 3’oung 
and already" celebrated law^’er was seemingly depressed. 
His deep veneration for his mother was traceable in the 
gloom with which he looked at her. Hortense was evi- 
dently preoccupied with her own troubles; Lisbeth 
knew that for the last fifteen days she had felt those 
first anxieties that poverty’ inflicts on upright people, 
especiall}^ on 3'oung women hitherto accustomed to 
prosperity who feel bound to conceal their uneasiness. 
From the first, Bette had felt quite certain that Adeline 
had not given her daughter the mone^’. The scrupu- 
lous Adeline had therefore condescended to the specious 
falsehoods by which borrowers obtain loans. 

The depression of the son and daughter and the pro- 
found sadness of the mother made the dinner a sad one. 
Three persons alone enlivened the scene, — Lisbeth, 
Celestine, and Wenceslas. His wife’s love had devel- 
oped a Polish vivacity in the once melancholy artist. 


Cousin Bette. 


225 


— the vivacity of the Gascon nature, the good-natured 
liveliness which characterizes those Frenchmen of the 
North. The tone of his mind and the expression of 
his face revealed his belief in himself and his surround- 
ings, and plainly showed that poor Hortense, faithful to 
the counsels of her mother, had hidden all her domestic 
troubles from him. 

“You ought to be very grateful to your, mother,” 
said Bette to her young cousin as they left the table, 
“ for having got you out of trouble with that money 
she gave you.” 

“ Mamma ! ” exclaimed Hortense, astonished. “ Oh, 
poor mamma! to whom I long to be able to give money! 
Bette, you don’t know the truth. Well, I will tell you : 
I have a dreadful suspicion that mamma is working for 
her support.” 

They were crossing the great salon, which was all 
in darkness, following Mariette, who carried the lamp 
from the dining-room to Adeline’s bed-chamber. At 
this instant Victorin touched Lisbeth and Hortense 
on the arm. Understanding the significance of the 
act, they allowed Wenceslas, Celestine, the marshal, 
and the baroness to precede them into the bedroom, 
and drew back themselves into the embrasure of a 
window. 

‘ ‘ What is the matter, Victorin ? ” asked Lisbeth. I ’ll 

wager it is some disaster your father has caused.” 

“Alas, yes,” answered Victorin. “A money-lender 
named Vauvinet has notes to the amount of sixty thou- 
sand francs signed by my father, and means to sue him. 
I tried to speak about this miserable business to my 
father to-day in the Chamber, but he would not under- 
15 


226 


Cousin Bette. 


stand me ; he seemed to avoid me. Ought I to warn 
my mother ? ” 

“ No, no,” said Lisbeth ; “ she has too many troubles 
already". It would kill her. She must be spared. You 
don’t know what a position she herself is in. If it 
had n’t been for your uncle you would have found no 
dinner here to-da^*.” 

“GoodOod! Victorin, we are both selfish monsters!” 
said Hortense to her brother. “ Lisbeth tells us what 
we ought to have guessed — ” 

Hortense could say no more ; she put her handker- 
chief to her mouth to stifle a sob, and wept. 

“I told Vauvinet to come and see me to-morrow morn- 
ing,” continued Victorin. “But he won’t be satisfied 
with my endorsement. Such men want cash to float their 
transactions.” 

“ Let us sell our Funds,” said Lisbeth to Hortense. 

“ What good would that do? ” said Victorin. “ The}' 
only amount to fifteen or sixteen thousand francs, and 
sixty is needed.” 

“Dear cousin!” cried Hortense, kissing Bette with 
the warmth of a pure heart. 

“ No, Lisbeth ; keep your little fortune,” said Vic- 
torin, pressing her hand. “I will find out to-morrow 
exactly what the man is after, and then, if my wife 
consents, I will hinder — perhaps prevent — the suit. 
My father’s reputation assailed ! It would be dreadful ! 
What would be thought at the War oflice ! His salary 
is assigned over to a creditor for three years, and the 
time does not expire till December ; consequently that 
security is not available. Vauvinet has renewed the 
notes eleven times ; and therefore just imagine what 


Cousin Bette. 


227 


sums my father has paid as interest upon them ! That 
gulf must be closed.’’ 

“ If Madame Marneffe would only leave him !” said 
Hortense, bitterly. 

“ God forbid ! ” said Victorin. “ My father would ^o 
elsewhere, and perhaps spend more than he does 
now.” 

What a change was this in the minds of children once 
so respectful, so trained by their mother to an absolute 
worship of their father ! They judged him now. 

“If it were not for me,” said Lisbeth, “your father 
would be even worse off than he is.” 

“ Let us go in,” said Hortense. “ Mamma is so keen 
she will suspect something ; and as our dear Lisbeth 
sa^’s, we must be cheerful.” 

“Victorin, j’ou don’t know where 3’our father will 
drag 3’ou with his passion for women, if you endeavor 
to settle his money matters,” said Lisbeth. “Better 
think of getting future support by marrying me to the 
marshal. Speak to him about it to-night. I will go 
awaj" earl}" to leave 3’ou free.” 

Victorin entered the bedroom. 

“Well, m3" poor child,” whispered Bette to Hortense, 
“ what do 3'ou intend to do? ” 

“ Come and dine to-morrow, and we will talk of it,” 
answered Hortense. “ I don’t know which wa}" to turn. 
You, who have had such experience of the trials of life, 
you must advise me.” 

While the assembled family endeavored to preach mar- 
riage to the marshal, and Lisbeth was returning to the 
rue Vanneau, an event happened of a kind which stim- 
ulates in women like Madame Marneffe the energies of 


228 


Cousin Bette, 


vice b}’ forcing them to display all the resources of their 
depravity. Let us recognize, however, one unfailing 
fact: in Paris life is too busy for vicious persons to do 
evil from instinct ; they defend themselves from attack 
by the help of vice, — that is all. 


Cousin Bette. 


229 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

MILLIONS REDIVIVUS. 

Madame Marneffe, whose salon was filled with wor- 
shippers, had just started the whist-tables when the foot- 
man, an old soldier enlisted by the baron, announced : 
“ Monsieur le Baron Montez de Montejanos.” 

Valerie’s heart underwent a violent commotion ; but 
she sprang quickly to the door of the room, exclaiming, 
“My cousin!” When she reached the Brazilian she 
whispered hurriedlj", “Be a relation, or all is over 
between us ! ” 

“ My dear cousin ! ” she continued, leading the new- 
comer to the fireplace, “is it possible 3"ou were not 
shipwrecked as they told me ? I mourned ^rou for three 
years — ” 

“ Good evening, mjr dear friend,” said Marnefie, 
giving his hand to the Brazilian, whose dress and de- 
meanor was that of a true Brazilian millionnaire. 

Monsieur le Baron Henri Montez de Montejanos, en- 
dowed by equatorial climates with the color and form 
which we expect in a stage Othello, was sombre and 
really" alarming to the e^’e, — an effect purely" plastic, for 
his gentle, tender nature predestined him for the machi- 
nations which feeble women practise upon strong men. 
The disdainful expression of his face, the muscular 
power shown by his well-knit frame, in fact all his 
signs of strength were displayed toward men onh’, — 


230 


Cousin Bette. 


a flattery addressed to women which the sex appre- 
ciates with such delight that a lover of this kind with 
his mistress on his arm has all the air of a triumphant 
matador. Superb]}" dressed in a blue coat with mas- 
sive gold buttons, black trousers, elegant boots of irre- 
proachable polish, and gloved in the last fashion, the 
new-comer nevertheless exhibited his Brazilian origin 
by an enormous diamond worth a hundred thousand 
francs which shone like a star on a blue silk cravat, 
framed by a white waistcoat half opened to show a 
shirt of exquisite fineness. His forehead, round and 
prominent like that of a faun (sign of obstinac}’ in the 
passions), was surmounted by a forest of jet-black hair, 
and^ beneath it glittered two clear, tawnj- e3"es which 
suggested that the baron’s mother might have been 
frightened before his birth b}" a leopard. 

This splendid specimen of the Portuguese race in 
Brazil placed himself with his back against the corner 
of the fireplace in an attitude that betra3"ed a Parisian 
training. Hat in hand, with one arm resting on the 
velvet shelf, he leaned toward Madame Marneffe and 
talked in a low voice, paying little or no attention to 
what he considered the horribl}" common set of people 
who filled the salon in so inopportune a way. 

This arrival, and the air and manner of the Brazilian 
awakened precisely the same sentiment of curiosity min- 
gled with anguish in Crevel and in the baron. Both 
wore the same expression of face, each had the same 
presentiment. Their motions, inspired b}" mutual real 
passion, became so comical from the simultaneousness of 
their gymnastics that a smile crossed the faces of all 
who were clever enough to understand the revelation. 


Cousin Bette. 


231 


Unluckil}" for himself, Crevel, alwa3's the shopkeeper 
though ma^^or of Paris, continued the attitude rather 
longer than the baron, who caught that involuntary 
revelation of Crevel’s passion as it were on the wing. It 
was another arrow in the heart of the amorous old man, 
who resolved on the spot to have an explanation with 
Valerie. 

“ To-night,” said Crevel to himself in the same spirit, 
arranging his cards, “I shall bring matters to a crisis.” 

“You led hearts,” cried Marneife, “but 3^ou have 
just refused them.” 

“ Oh, excuse me,” answered Crevel, picking up his 
cards. “ That baron,” he continued thinking to himself, 
“ strikes me as interfering. Valerie ma}* live with Hulot, 
— that *s part of m}^ vengeance, and I know how to get 
rid of him, — but a cousin ! a baron too many ! — I 
won’t be made a fool of, — I shall insist on knowing 
what sort of relation he really is.” 

That evening, b}’ a piece of luck which happens onlj" 
to prett}^ women, Valerie was charmingly dressed. Her 
white skin shone through the meshes of Venetian point 
whose russet tones brought out the ivory satin of her 
beautiful shoulders so characteristic of Parisian women, 
who acquire superb flesh (by what process is still un- 
known), and 3’et retain the elegance of their figures. 
She wore a robe of black velvet which seemed at times 
to be slipping from the shoulders, and her hair was 
arranged with lace and flowers. Her arms, which were 
round and dimpled, issued from short sleeves ruffled 
with falls of lace. She was like those fine fruits tempt- 
ingly arranged on a prettj" dish, whose juices eat into the 
steel of the knife that cuts them. 


232 


Cousin Bette. 


“Valerie,” said the Brazilian in the young woman’s 
ear, “I have come back faithful to 3"ou. My uncle is 
dead, and I am twice as rich as I was when I went 
away. I wish to live and die in Paris — near j^ou, and 
for you ! ” 

“ Speak lower, Henri, for heaven’s sake ! ” 

“ Bah ! I must speak to j^ou if I have to throw the 
whole company out of the window — especiall}^ after 
searching Paris for two da^^s to find you. I can stay 
after they leave, can I not?” 

Valerie smiled on her pretended cousin as she said : 
“ Kemember that you are the son of a sister of m}^ 
mother, who married 3’our father during Junot’s cam- 
paign in Portugal.” 

“ I, Montez de Montejanos, descendant of the con- 
querors of Brazil, do you ask me to lie ! ” 

“ Speak lower, or we must part.” 

“Why?” 

“ Marneflfe, like dying men who are possessed with a 
last fanc3', has grown jealous — ” 

“That lackey!” said the Brazilian, who knew his 
Marneffe. “ I will bu}" him off.” 

“ How violent j^ou are ! ” 

“Ha! how did j^ou get all this luxury?” cried the 
Brazilian, suddenly taking note of the elegant salon. 

She laughed. 

“ What bad taste, Henri ! ” she said. 

She had just caught two angry glances flaming with 
jealousy, which compelled her to look straight at her 
two victims writhing in pain. Crevel, who was playing 
against the baron and Monsieur Coquet, had Marnefife 
for a partner. The party were equally matched, be- 


Cousin Bette. 


233 


cause on either side the baron and Crevel had lost their 
heads, and made blunder after blunder. The two old 
men betra3’ed in a single moment the passion which 
Valerie had succeeded in making them hide for three 
3*ears. One thing, however, she was unable to do ; she 
could not extinguish in her e^’es the joy of again seeing 
the man who had once stirred her heart, the object of 
her first passion. The rights of such happy mortals 
live as long as the woman who has once granted them. 

In the midst of the three passions contending around 
her, one rel3dng on the insolence of mone3% another on the 
rights of possession, and the third on youth, strength, 
wealth, and primar3^ claims, Madame Marneffe contin- 
ued calm and imperturbable, like General Bonaparte at 
the siege of Mantua, when he had two armies to deal 
with in blockading the place. Jealousy convulsing old 
Hulot’s face, made it as terrible as the late Marechal 
Montcornet heading a charge of cavalr3’ on the Russian 
lines. In his well-known capacit3’ as a handsome man 
the baron had never felt the pangs of jealousy, just as 
Murat never knew fear. He was always certain of vic- 
toiy. His defeat in the matter of Josepha, the first de- 
feat of his life, he attributed to her thirst for money ; he 
said he was vanquished by a million, not by an abortion, 
alluding to the Due d’Herouville. But the philters and 
the vertigos that come of the mad passiofi now rushed 
over his heart in a moment. He turned from the whist- 
table to the chimne3'-piece with a movement a la Mira- 
beau, and when he laid down his cards to look fixedly 
at the Brazilian and Valerie, those about him felt some 
fear, mingled with curiosity, lest the anger now sup- 
pressed should burst forth violentl3’. The spurious 


234 


Cousin Bette, 


cousin looked down on the baron as if he were examin- 
ing a Chinese image. The situation could not last 
without ending in a frightful outburst. Marneffe was 
afraid of Hulot, for he dreaded the loss of his influence ; 
dying men cling to life as the galley-slaves long for 
libert3\ The man was determined to be head of his 
division at an}' cost. Very naturally alarmed at the 
pantomime of the two old men, he rose, whispered to 
his wife, and then, to the great astonishment of every 
one, Valerie went into her bedroom followed by her hus- 
band and the Brazilian. 

‘‘Did Madame Marneffe ever speak to 3'Ou of that 
cousin?” asked Crevel of Baron Hulot. 

“Never!” answered the baron, rising. “We have 
pla3'ed enough for to-night,” he added. “I have lost 
two louis, and here the}' are.” 

He threw the gold pieces on the table and sat down 
on the sofa with an air which the company interpreted 
as a sign that they should disperse. Monsieur and 
Madame Coquet after exchanging a few words with 
each other left the room, and Claude Vignon in despair 
followed them. These departures started the rest of 
the compan}', who felt they were in the way, and the 
baron and Crevel were presently left alone. They said 
nothing to each other. Hulot, forgetting Crevel’s pres- 
ence, went on tiptoe to the door of the bedroom, but 
instantly made a sudden and prodigious jump back- 
ward as Monsieur MarneflTe opened it and came out 
with a calm face, apparently much surprised to find 
only the two men. 

“ Where ’s the tea? ” he said. 

“ Where is VaDrie? ” asked the baron, furiously. 


Comin Bette. 


235 


“My wife?” said Marneffe, “ she has gone upstairs to 
your cousin’s apartment ; she will be back presently.” 

“ Why has she left us in this way?” 

“Why?” said Marneffe. “ Because Mademoiselle 
Lisbeth has just returned from dining with 3'our wife, 
and she was seized with indigestion ; Mathurine came 
to get some tea for her from Valerie, who ran up to see 
what was the matter.” 

“ Where is that cousin?” 

“ He has gone.” 

“ Do 3’ou believe that? ” asked the baron. 

“ I have just put him in his carriage,” said Marneffe, 
with a hideous smile. 

The baron, considering Mai*neffe a cipher, left the 
room and went up to Lisbeth’ s apartment, A thought 
darted through his brain, such as a heart inflamed bj" 
jealousy sometimes sends there. Marneffe’s depravity 
was well known to him, and he suddenty suspected an 
ignominious collusion between husband and wife. 

“Where has everybodj’ gone?” asked Marneffe, find- 
ing himself alone with Crevel. 

“ When the sun sets the birds roost,” said Crevel, 
“ Madame Marneffe disappeared, her adorers likewise. 
Everybody’ has gone home. Let us play piquet,” he 
added, determined to remain. 

The baron ran quickl}’ upstairs to Bette’s apartment ; 
but the door was locked, and the inquiries and answers 
took enough time for two clever women to get up a 
scene of indigestion relieved by tea, Lisbeth was evi- 
dently suffering and Valerie was anxious, so anxious 
that she scarcely" noticed the baron’s furious entrance. 
Illness is a screen which women often set up between 


236 


Cousin Bette, 


themselves and the wind of a quarrel. Hulot looked all 
round the room but could see no place in which to hide 
a Brazilian. 

“ Your indigestion, Bette, is a compliment to m3' 
wife's dinner," he said, looking pointedly' at the old 
maid, who was perfectly well, though endeavoring to 
imitate certain convulsions. 

“ See how lucky it is that dear Bette lives in this 
house ! If I had not got to her at once she might have 
been alarmingl}^ ill," said Valerie. 

“ You look as if you thought there was nothing the 
matter with me," said Lisbeth addressing the baron ; 
“it would be infamous if — " 

“ Wh}'? " demanded the baron, “ do you know what 
brings me here?" and he leered at the lock of the dress- 
ing-room door from which the key had been taken. 

“Are 3’ou talking Greek ? " said Madame Marneffe, 
with a heart-rending expression of tenderness and in- 
jured feeling. 

“It is because of 3'ou, — yes, actually j'our fault, 
my dear cousin, that I am in this state ! " cried Bette, 
vehementl}’. 

Her cry diverted the baron's attention and he gazed 
at her with amazement. 

“ You know that I am your friend," continued Lisbeth ; 

I live here, isn't that a proof of it? I have spent my 
last strength in taking care of your interests and those 
of our dear Valerie. Her household expenses cost ten 
times less than they would in an}’ other house kept up 
in the same manner. If it were not for me, cousin, in- 
stead of paying two thousand francs a month, 3’ou would 
have to spend three or four thousand." 


Cousin Bette. 


237 


“ I know all that,” said the baron, impatiently. “You 
help us in more ways than one,” he added significantly, 
approaching Madame Marneffe and taking her round 
the throat ; “is n’t that so, m 3 " little darling? ” 

“ Upon my word,” said Valerie, “ I believe 3 ’ou are 
craz3".” 

“You can’t doubt my attachment,” cned Lisbeth; 
“ but I also love my cousin, Adeline, and to-day I 
found her in tears. She has not seen 3 "Ou for a month. 
That’s not right. You leave poor Adeline without 
means. Your daughter Hortense almost fainted away 
when she heard there would have been no dinner to-da}" 
if 3 "our brother had not lent Adeline some money. There 
was nothing but diy bread in your house this morning ! 
Adeline has taken the heroic resolution to support her- 
self. She said to me, ‘ I will do as 3 'OU have done.* 
The words wrung m 3 " heart; I thought of what my 
cousin was in 1811 and what she now is in 1841 ! the 
shock stopped my digestion. I came home thinking 
I should feel better, but once here I am worse — ” 

“Valerie! 3 "OU see what my devotion to you has 
brought me to ! ” said the baron. “ It makes me 
guilty of domestic crimes.” 

“ Ah ! I did well to remain single ! *’ cried Bette, with 
savage joy. “You are a good and kind man, and 
Adeline is an angel, and this is the reward of blind 
devotion.” 

“ An old angel,*’ said Madame Marneffe, gently, with 
a glance half-tender, half-mocking at her Hector, who 
was still watching her as a detective watches a supposed 
criminal. 

“Ah, poor woman!” said the baron; “I have not 


238 


Cousin Bette. 


given her any mone}’ for nine months, and 3"et I can 
find plenty for 3’ou, Valerie — at what cost! You will 
never be loved as I love 3’Ou, and in return what 
distress 3’Ou cause me ! ” 

Distress?” she answered. “ Is that what 3"OU call 
the happiness I confer upon j^ou ? ” 

don't 3’et know what 3^our relations have been 
with that sham cousin of whom 3’Ou never told me,” 
said the baron, paying no attention to the phrases 
which Valerie interjected. When he entered the room 
it was like a stab in m3" heart. Blinded as I have been 
I am not a blind man ; I could read in 3"Our e3"es and 
in his. Sparks flew from that monkey-face to 3"Ours 
and 3"ou looked — oh ! 3^ou never gave me such a look, 
never! As for this mj’stery, Valerie, it shall be brought 
to light. You are the onty woman who has made me 
feel the emotion of jealousy, therefore 3"ou need not be 
surprised at what I say, — I perceive still another m3"s* 
teiy, a secret which has burst its veil, and it seems to me 
infamous — ” 

Go on ! go on ! ” cried Valerie. 

“ Crevel, that mound of flesh and folty, loves 3"ou, 
and you receive his attentions so well that the fool has 
betra3"ed his passion before eveiybod3".” 

‘‘That’s the third! have 3"ou found any more?” 
demanded Madame Marneffe. 

“There ma3" be more,” said the baron. 

“'Suppose Monsieur Crevel does love me? a man has 
a right to do that. If I favored his passion it would be 
the act of a coquette or of a woman who wants more 
than 3’ou can give her. Well, either love me with all 
my faults or leave me. If you give me back my liberty 


Cousin Bette. 


239 


neither you nor Monsieur Crevel shall ever enter my 
doors. I shall take my cousin so as not to lose the 
charming habits which 3’ou attribute to me. Adieu, 
Monsieur le baron Hulot.” 

She rose ; but the old man caught her by the arm 
and made her sit down again. He could not replace 
Valerie; she had become a more imperious necessit^^ 
than even the common needs of life, and he felt he 
would rather remain in a state of uncertainty than 
obtain the slightest proof of her infidelit3\ 

“ My dear Valerie,” he said, “ do 3 0U not see how I 
suffer? I onl3’ ask you to justif3’ 3’ourself, — give me 
good reasons — ” 

“ Well, go and wait for me downstairs ; I don’t 
suppose 3"Ou want to be present at what I have to 
do for 3’our cousin.” 

Hulot withdrew slowly. 

“ Old libertine ! ” cried Bette, as he left them, “ 3’ou 
have not asked me about 3’our children ! What do 3'ou 
mean to do for Adeline ? To-morrow I shall take her 
m3" poor savings.” 

“ A man owes his wife a support, at least,” said 
Madame Marneffe, smiling. 

The baron, not offended by Lisbeth’s speech, which 
arraigned him as sharply as Josepha’s had done, went 
hastily away like one who wanted to avoid an incon- 
venient question. 

The bolt once slipped behind him, the Brazilian was 
let out of the dressing-room where he was waiting ; tears 
were in his e3"es and his state of mind was pitiable to 
see. He had heard all. 


240 


Cousin Bette, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

SCENES OF HIGH FEMININE COMEDY. 

“You have ceased to love me, Henri ; alas ! I see it,” 
said Madame Marnelfe, hiding her face in her handker- 
chief, and bursting into tears. 

It was a cry of real love. The clamor of a woman’s 
distress is so persuasive that it wrings a pardon from 
the heart of every lover if she is 3’oung and pretty. 

“ If you love me, wh}’ not give up everything for my 
sake?” demanded the Brazilian. 

This child of transatlantic Nature, logical like all 
men bred in Nature’s bosom, took up the conversation 
at the point where he had left it, passing his arm 
around Valerie’s waist. 

“ You ask why? ” she said, raising her head to look 
at him, and quelling him by a glance overflowing with 
love. “ Because, my treasure, I am married ; because 
we are in Paris and not on the pampas, not in the soli- 
tudes of America. My kind Henri, my first, m3’ only 
love, listen to me ! This husband of mine, a sub-director 
at the War office, wishes to be head of his department 
and an officer of the Legion of honor. Can I prevent 
him from being ambitious? Now, for exactly the same 
reason that he once left you and me free to follow our 
wishes (nearly four years ago, 3’ou cruel fellow ! ) he 


Cousin Bette* 


241 


now compels me to take Hulot. I can’t get rid of that 
dreadful official — who puffs like a walrus and is sixty- 
three 3"ears old, and hateful to me, and who has grown 
ten years older in the last three years — until the day 
when Marneffe is head of his department and oflScer 
of the Legion of honor — ” 

“ What else is 3'our husband to get? ” 

“Three thousand francs.” 

“I’ll give him an annuity for that amount,” said 
Baron Montez. “ Come, let us leave Paris and go — ” 
Where?” said Valerie, with one of those pretty 
pouts by which women tease the men of whom they are 
sure. “ Paris is the onl}’ city where it is possible to 
live happ}'. I care too much for our love to allow it to 
weaken b}^ living alone with 3’ou in a desert. Hear me, 
Henri ; you are the only man in all the universe whom 
I ever loved — write that on your tiger skull.” 

Women alwa3^s persuade the men whom the3^ have 
turned to sheep that they are lions and tigers with iron 
wills. 

“ You must listen to me. Monsieur Marneffe has n’t 
five years to live ; he is rotten to the marrow of his 
bones ; out of twelve months in the 3'ear he spends 
seven swallowing drugs ; he is swathed in flannel : in 
short, the doctors say the scythe may cut him down at 
an3’ moment ; the slightest illness, one that could not 
harm a sound man, will be his death ; his blood is cor- 
rupt, vitality is attacked at its source. Some day, and 
it is not far off, I shall be a widow. Well, I, who am 
already asked in marriage b3^ a man with sixty thousand 
francs a 3"ear, I, who can manage that man just as I 
can this bit of sugar, I declare to 3’ou that if you were 
16 


242 


Cousin Bette, 


poor like Hulot, leprous like Marneffe, and even if you 
were to beat me, it is 3’ou alone that I love and whose 
name I wish to bear. I am ready to give j’ou ever}^ 
proof of love that ,you can ask — ” 

“Well then, to-night — ” 

“But, child of Rio, my beautiful leopard who has 
come to me from the virgin forests of Brazil/’ she said, 
taking possession of his hand and fondling it, “ respect 
the woman whom 3’ou wish to make your wife — Shall 
I be 3’our wife, Henri ? ” 

“Yes,” he said, conquered by the wild garrulit}' of 
her passion. 

He knelt at her feet. 

“Henri,” said Valerie, taking both his hands and 
looking fixedly into his eyes, swear to me now, in 
presence of Lisbeth, m3’ best and 01113’ friend, m3’ sis- 
ter, that you will marry me at the end of my year of 
widowhood.” 

“ I swear it I ” 

“That is not enough. Swear it b3’ the ashes and 
the eternal salvation of 3’our mother — swear it b3' the 
Virgin Mary and b3^ your Christian hope.” 

Valerie knew well that the Brazilian would keep that 
oath even though she were sunk in the deepest social 
degradation. He took the solemn vow, his brow almost 
touching her white bosom, his eyes spell-bound ; he was 
drunk, drunk as a man is when he sees a beloved 
woman after long absence. 

“Well then, be content. Respect your future wife. 
Don’t spend a farthing on me ; I forbid it. Remain 
here in the front room, 3’ou can sleep on the little sofa ; 
I will come back myself and tell you when you can come 


Cousin Bette, 


243 


down. We will breakfast together, and 3’ou ma^’ leave 
at one o’clock as though you had been paying me a 
morning visit. There is nothing to fear; the porters 
are devoted to me. Now I must go down and pour 
out tea.” 

She made a sign to Lisbeth, who accompanied her to 
the landing. There, Valerie whispered in the old maid’s 
ear. 

“My blackamoor has come back too soon! I shall 
die if I don’t avenge 3’ou on Hortense.” 

“ Don’t be afraid, you dear little devil ; ” said Bette, 
kissing her on the forehead. “ When love and ven- 
geance run in couples they never miss their goal. I am 
to meet Hortense to-morrow ; she is in great poverty*. 
Wenceslas would kiss you a thousand times to get a 
thousand francs.” 

When Hulot left Valerie he went down to the porter’s 
lodge and came suddenly on Madame Olivier. 

“Madame Olivier?” 

Hearing this imperative call and observing the ges- 
ture by which it was enforced, Madame Olivier came out 
of her den and followed the baron to a corner of the 
courtj'ard. 

“ Don’t 3’Ou know that if an3' one can help your son 
to get a notary’s practice it is I? It is owing to me 
that he completed his law studies and got into a no- 
tary’s office at all.” 

“ Yes, monsieur le baron, and monsieur can count on 
our gratitude. There is never a da3" that I don’t pra3' 
to God for blessings on monsieur le baron.” 

“ Fewer words, my good woman,” said Hulot, “ and 
more deeds.” 


244 


Cousin Bette, 


‘ ‘ What must we do ? ” 

“ A man came here to-night in a carriage. Do you 
know him ? ” 

Madame Olivier had recognized Montez ; in fact she 
could hardly have forgotten a man who slipped five 
francs into her hand^ every time he left the rue du 
Doyenne a little too earl}’ in the morning. If the baron 
had chanced on Olivier he might perhaps have learned 
the truth ; but Olivier had gone to bed. Among the 
lower classes the woman is not only superior to the man, 
but she almost always rules him. Madame Olivier had 
long decided on her course in case their two benefac- 
tors quarrelled ; she looked upon Madame Marneflfe as 
the stronger of the two powers. 

“ Do I know him? ’’ she said. “ No — I never saw 
him before.” 

“Nonsense; Madame Marneffe’s cousin must have 
gone to see her when she lived in the rue du Doyenne.” 

“Oh ! was it her cousin?” exclaimed Madame Olivier. 
“ It may have been, for I did not see his face. I ’ll pay 
attention, monsieur, next time — ” 

“ He will come down by and by,” said the baron, 
hastily. 

“But he has gone,” said Madame Olivier, who now 
understood the matter, “ the carriage is not here.” 

‘ ‘ Did you see him go ? ” 

“Yes, and he said to the servant, ‘ To the embassy.’ 

Her tone, and the assurance she gave him, brought a 
sigh of relief from the baron’s breast ; he took Madame 
Olivier’s hand and wrung it. 

“Thank you, my dear Madame Olivier, but that’s 
not all ; how about Monsieur Crevel? ” 


Cousin Bette* 


245 


“Monsieur Crevel? What do j'ou mean? I don’t 
understand,” answered Madame Olivier. 

“He loves Madame Marneffe.” 

“It isn’t possible, Monsieur le baron!” she ex- 
claimed, clasping her hands. 

“ He loves Madame Marneffe,” repeated Hulot, im- 
peratively. “How do they manage? I don’t know; 
but I mean to know, and so must 3’ou. If you can 
put me on the track of that intrigue your son is a 
notary.” 

“Monsieur le baron, don’t let j’our blood boil that 
way,” answered Madame Olivier. “ Madame loves you 
and only you ; her waiting-maid knows that, and we of- 
ten talk of it ; she says you are the happiest of men, for 
you know Madame’s value. Ah ! she ’s perfection ! 
She rises at ten o’clock every day ; then she break- 
fasts — good; then it takes her an hour or more to 
dress ; and that brings us to about two o’clock ; after 
that she walks in the Tuileries in sight of everybody 
and comes home punctuallj’ at four o’clock, — your hour 
for coming. Oh I it is all as regular as clock-work. 
She has no secrets from her maid, and Reine has none 
from me ; she could n’t have any, because of my son, 
with whom she ’s in love. So you see that if Madame 
had any relations with Monsieur Crevel we should cer- 
tainly know it.” 

The baron returned to Madame Marneffe’s apartment 
with a beaming face, convinced that he was the onl}' 
lover of that odious courtesan, as beautiful, as graceful 
and as deceitful as a siren. 

Crevel and Marneffe were just beginning their second 
game of piquet. Crevel lost as men lose who are 


246 


Cousin Bette. 


pacing no attention to their pla3\ Marnnffe, who knew 
the causes of the major’s absent-mindedness, profited 
without scruple ; he glanced at the cards to be taken, 
and “discarded” accordingl}" ; then overlooking his 
adversarj^’s game he plaj^ed sure. The stake was 
twenty sous, and he had thus stolen thirty francs 
before the baron re-entered the room. 

“ Well ! ” said Hulot, surprised to see the room 
empty, “are you alone? where are they all?” 

“ Your fine temper sent everybody flying,” replied 
Crevel. 

“No, it was the arrival of mj^ wife’s cousin,” said 
MarneflTe. ‘‘ The company thought that Valerie and 
Henri must have something to say to each other after 
three 3^ears’ absence, so the}^ discreetly retired. If I 
had been here I should have kept them ; but that would 
have been a pit}’, as it happened, for Lisbeth who 
alwa^’S pours out tea, was taken ill — ” 

“ Is she reall}^ ill? ” interrupted Crevel. 

“ The}’ said so,” replied Marneffe, with cynical in- 
difference. 

The mayor looked at the clock and estimated that 
the baron had been forty minutes with Valerie. His 
joyous manner incriminated him, together with Valerie 
and Lisbeth, in Crevel’s mind. 

“I have just seen her; she suffers horribly, poor 
girl,” said Hulot. 

“ The sufferings of other people seem to please you,” 
replied Crevel, crossly ; ‘ ‘ you have come back with your 
face radiant. Is Lisbeth likely to die? Your daughter 
is to have her money, they say. I don’t know you 
again ; you went out with a face like the Moor of 


Cousin Bette. 


247 


Venice and you have come back looking like Saint- 
Preux — I should like to see Madame Marneffe’s 
face now.” 

“ What do you mean by that?” demanded Monsieur 
Marneffe, gathering up his cards and laying them before 
him. 

The dim eyes of the decrepit creature lighted up ; a 
faint color overspread the cold and flabb}’ cheeks ; he 
half-opened the black lips of his toothless mouth, from 
which oozed a white froth looking like chalk. The 
rage of the impotent man, whose life hung by a thread, 
and who risked nothing in a duel, while Crevel risked 
all, alarmed the mayor. 

“ I said,” answered Crevel, “ that I should like to see 
Madame Marneife’s face, and all the more because 
3"ours has a particularly’ disagreeable expression at this 
moment. On my’ word of honor, you are frightfully 
ugly^ my’ dear Marneffe.” 

“ You are not polite.” 

“A man who wins thirty francs in forty-five minutes 
never looks handsome to me.” 

“Ah, if you had seen me seventeen y’ears ago!” 
said the wreck. 

“ Were y’ou fascinating?” retorted Crevel. 

‘^That’s what ruined me. If I had managed matters 
as you have, I should be peer of France and mayor at 
this moment.” 

“Yes,” said Crevel, sneering, “you have carried the 
war too far. I save up gold in the business, but you 
swallow its drugs.” 

Crevel burst out laughing. Marneffe might seem to 
be angry about his wounded honor, but he always 


248 


Cousin Bette. 


took such vulgar and insulting jokes amiably. They 
were the small change of conversation between himseh 
and Crevel. 

“ Eve has cost me dear, I admit,” he replied ; “ but a 
short life and a merry one, that’s my motto.” 

“ I prefer mine long and happy,” replied Crevel. 

At this moment Madame Marneffe came in, saw her 
husband playing cards with Crevel, and the baron sit- 
ting apart, all three alone in the salon. She guessed 
from a first glance at the municipal dignitary the 
thoughts that were agitating his breast, and she de- 
cided instantly on her course. 

“Marneffe, dear!” she said, leaning on her hus- 
band’s shoulder and passing her pretty fingers over his 
sparse gray hairs as if to draw them together, “it is 
very late for you ; you ought to be in bed ; you know 
what the doctor said, — if j’ou want to live, 3’ou must 
take care ; come, leave your piquet.” 

“ Let’s end at five points,” said Marneffe to Crevel. 

“ Ver}" good ; I have two alread}",” replied Crevel. 

“ How long will it take? ” asked Valerie. 

“ Ten minutes.” 

“It is already eleven o’clock,” she said. “ Reall}*, 
Monsieur Crevel, one would think you wanted to kill 
my husband. At any rate, make haste.” 

The double meaning of the speech amused Crevel, 
Hulot, and even Marneffe himself. Valerie crossed the 
room to Hector. 

“Go away now, my dearest,” she whispered, “ and 
walk down the rue Vanneau ; then come back when 
you see Crevel leave the house.” 

“I would rather only leave the apartment and get 


Cousin Bette, 


249 


back b}’ the door into 3’our dressing-room. You could 
tell Eeine to open it for me.” 

“ Reine is upstairs taking care of Lisbeth.” 

“ Well, then, I ’ll go up to Lisbeth’s apartment.” 

Either wa^^ was perilous for Valerie, who, foreseeing 
that she must come to an explanation with Crevel, did 
not choose to have Hulot in her bedroom where he could 
overhear the conversation; and the Brazilian was up- 
stairs. 

“Upon my word, 3’ou men,” said Valerie, “when 
you get a notion into 3’our heads would burn a house 
down to force an entrance. Lisbeth is not in a state to 
have 3"ou up there. Are 3'ou afraid of getting rheumat- 
ism in the street? Come, go; or good-by to you.” 

“ Good-night, gentlemen,” said the baron aloud. 

Touched in his vanit3^ the old man felt bound to prove 
that he could rival a young lover b3' awaiting the happ3" 
moment in the street. 

Marneffe said good-night to his wife, whose hand 
he took with a show of tenderness. Valerie shook his 
in a manner that meant, “ Help me to get rid of 
Crevel.” 

“Good-night, Crevel,” said Marneffe, “I hope 3’ou 
won’t sta3" long with Valerie. I’m jealous — it has 
seized me late but it holds me fast — I shall come 
back present^ and make sure 3’ou are gone.” 

“We have business to discuss ; but I shall not sta3^ 
long,” said Crevel. 

“Speak low, — what do you want of me?” said 
Valerie, looking at Crevel with a haughty and con- 
temptuous e3’e. 

Meeting her glance, Crevel, who had rendered im- 


250 


Cousin Bette, 


mense services to Valerie and was prepared to boast of 
them, became suddenl}^ humble and submissive. 

“ That Brazilian — ” he stopped short, struck dumb 
by the fixed and scornful look which she gave him. 

“ Go on,” she said. 

“ This cousin — ” 

‘‘ He is not my cousin,” she replied, “ he is my cousin 
for the world and for Monsieur Marneffe. Supposing 
he were my lover, you have no right to say anj^ thing. 
A shopkeeper who bu3's a woman to revenge himself on 
another man is, in my opinion, beneath the man who 
bu3’s for love. You were not in love with me ; but you 
knew I was Baron Hulot’s mistress, and 3*ou bought me 
just as a man buys a pistol to kill his adversar3\ I 
wanted your mone3' and I consented.” 

“ But you have not fulfilled the bargain,” said Crevel, 
with commercial keenness. 

“ Ah ! 3’ou want Baron Hulot to know that 3'ou have 
carried ofi* his mistress in revenge for Jos^pha. Nothing 
could better prove the baseness of 3’our mind. You sa3’ 
3''Ou love a woman ; 3'ou treat her like a duchess, and 
then 3’ou want to publicly disgrace her! M3’ good 
friend, 3’ou are right, — this woman here present is not 
the equal of Jos^pha ; Josepha had the courage of her 
infam3^, whereas I am a hypocrite who ought to be 
whipped in the market-place. Alas ! Josepha is pro- 
tected b3" her cleverness and b3^ her money, but I, — my 
only fortune is m3^ honor ; I am still a virtuous and re- 
spected bourgeuise, but if you make a scandal about me 
what shall I become? If I had money I would not 
care ; but, as it is, T have only about fifteen thousand 
francs a 3’ear, — ” 


Cousin Bette. 


251 


“ You have a great deal more,” said Crevel. “ Withiu 
the last two months I have doubled 3’our investment in 
the Orleans railwa3\” 

“Well, but no one is respected in Paris until he 
has fifty thousand francs a j^ear. You can’t give me 
the equivalent of what I should lose in throwing over 
the baron. Do you ask what that is ? — why, Marneffe’s 
appointment as head of the department ; he would then 
have six thousand francs a year ; he has been twenty 
seven 3’ears in the service, and in three more, if he lives 
as long, I should have a pension of fifteen hundred 
francs when he dies. You, whom I have overwhelmed 
with favors, with happiness, you are not willing to 
wait for j^our revenge ! — and you call that love ! ” she 
cried. 

“ I may have begun b}’^ calculating on revenge,” said 
Crevel, “ but I have ended by being j'our spaniel. You 
trample on my heart, you crush me, 3’ou dumfound me, 
and 3^et I love you as I never loved before* Valerie, 
I love you as much as I love Celestine. I am capable 
of anything for ^^our sake. Say that instead of com- 
ing twice a week to the rue du Dauphin, you will come 
three times.” 

“ Is that all ! really, you are getting j^outhful again,” 

“ Let me dismiss Hulot and humiliate him,” urged 
Crevel. “ Get rid of him, promise you will not see that 
Brazilian ; be mine only — you shall not repent it. In 
the first place I will give 3’ou eight thousand francs a 
year, — an annuity onty, but j’ou shall have the capi- 
tal if you are faithful to me for five years.” 

“ Alwa}^s making bargains ! a bourgeois never knows 
how to give. You want to keep up relays of love with 


252 


Cousin Bette, 


dividends ! Ah, shopl^eeper ! vender of hair-oils ! you 
ticket ever^^thing with its price. Hector told me that 
the Due d’Herouville brought Josepha the certificate 
for her thirty thousand francs a year in a bag of sugar- 
plums. I am worth six times as much as Josepha. 
Ah ! to be loved ! ” she said, twisting her curls before 
the mirror. “ Henri loves me, he would kill you like a 
fly at a sign from me. Hulot loves me, and leaves his 
wife to want. But you, you who can be a good father 
and look after your family and yet have three hundred 
thousand francs laid by outside of your property’ with 
which you might do what you liked — ” 

“ Valerie ! I offer you half of it,” cried Crevel, falling 
on his knees. 

“Are 3’ou still here?” cried Marnefle, entering in his 
dressing-gown. “ What are you doing? ” 

He is begging my pardon for an insulting speech,” 
said Valerie. 

Crevel wished he could drop through a trap-door as 
they do at the theatre. 

“ Eise, my dear Crevel, you look too ridiculous,” said 
Marneflfe, smiling. “ I see by Valerie’s face that there 
is no danger for me.” 

“Go to bed and sleep in peace,” said Madame Mar- 
neflfe to her husband. 

“Isn’t she clever?” thought Crevel ; “ she is adora- 
ble ! how she got out of it ! ” 

When Marneflfe had disappeared, the maj^or seized 
Valerie’s hands and kissed them, moistening them with 
tears. 

“ I will put it all in your name,” he said. 

“Ah! that is love!” she whispered. “ Well, love 


CouBin Bette, 


253 


for love. Hulot is down below, waiting in the street. 
Poor old fellow, he expects me to put a light in m3" win- 
dow to let him know when to come. I permit 3’ou to 
go and tell him 3"ou are the one I love ; he will not be- 
lieve 3"Ou ; then take him to the rue du Dauphin and 
give him proofs. I permit you, nay, I order you to do 
so. That walrus wears me out. Keep him in the rue 
du Dauphin all night, tear him with hot pincers, re- 
venge 3’ourself for Josepha. Hulot ma}" die of it, but if 
so we shall save his wife and children from utter ruin. 
Madame Hulot is now working for her living ! ” 

“ Poor lady ! it is shameful ! ” cried Crevel, his nat^ 
ural good feeling coming to the surface. 

“ If 3"ou love me, Celestin,” she whispered in his ear 
as her lips touched it, “ keep him away, or I am lost. 
Marneffe suspects something, and Hector has the key 
of the porte-cochere and expects to return.’* 

Crevel pressed her in his arms and went awa3" at the 
summit of happiness. Valerie lovingly accompanied 
him to the landing ; then, as if magnetized, she fol- 
lowed him down the staircase. 

“ My Valerie ! go back ; do not compromise 3’ourself 
before the porters. — Go ; m3’ life, my fortune, my all 
is 3’ours. — Go back, m3^ duchess ! ” 

“Madame Olivier! ” said Valerie, softly, as soon as 
the door closed on Crevel. 

“Why, madame, 3"Ou here? ” said Madame Olivier, 
amazed. 

“ Run the upper and lower bolts, and don’t open the 
door to an3’ one — no matter who.” 

“ Very well, madame.” 

As soon as the bolts were drawn Madame Olivier 


254 


Cousin Bette. 


recounted the attempt of the baron to corrupt her 
fidelity. 

“You behaved like an angel, my dear Olivier,” re- 
plied Madame Marneffe, “ but we must talk of all that 
to-morrow.” 

Valerie ran up to the third story with the rapidity of 
an arrow from its bow, gave three little knocks on 
Lisbeth’s door, and then returned to her own apartment 
where she gave certain orders to Reine ; no Parisian 
waiting-maid misses such an occasion as the return of 
a Montez from Brazil. 


Cousin Bette, 


255 


CHAPTER XX. 

. TWO BROTHERS OF THE GREAT CONFRATERNITY OP 
BROTHERHOODS. 

“ No, by heaven ! ” thought Crevel to himself, “ none 
but women of the world can love like that. How she 
came down those stairs, her eyes blazing, fairly carried 
away! Josepha never — Josepha ! mere scum ! What 
did I say? scum! Heavens ! suppose I were to let slip 
such a word at the Tuileries? No, if Valerie does n’t 
train me I shall never be worth anything in society — 
I, who am so anxious to be a distinguished man ! What 
a woman ! If she merely looks at me coldly it stirs m3* 
inside like the colic I What grace ! what wit ! Josepha 
never gave me such emotions ! What hidden perfec- 
tions ! — Oh, there ’s m3* man ! ” 

In the shadows of the rue de Babylone he beheld 
Hulot, with his head down, slipping along the side of 
some buildings in process of construction, and he went 
straight I up to him. 

“ Good morning, baron ; for it is past midnight, my 
dear fellow. What the devil are 3*011 doing here, walk- 
ing up and down in the rain ? It is n’t wise, at our age. 
Do you want me to give you a piece of good advice ? 
Let us both go home ; for, between ourselves, you won’t 
see that light in the window.” 


256 


Cousin Bette, 


As the baron heard these last words it dawned upon 
him that he was sixty-three years old, and that his 
cloak was wet. 

“Who told you that?” he said. 

“Val^iie, — hang it, Valerie, who wishes to be 
solely my Valerie. That puts us even, and we ’ll pla3" 
for the rubber when you like. You can’t be angry, for 
you know it was agreed I should take m}’ revenge. You 
spent three months in getting Josepha away from me, 
and 1 ’ve got Valerie in — however, don’t let ’s talk of 
that,” he added. “Now, I intend to have her all to 
m3'Self. But we need n’t be less good friends.” 

“ Crevel, don’t joke,” said the baron, in a choking 
voice. “It is a matter of life and death to me.” 

“Bless me, how 3^ou take it! Baron, don’t 3'ou re- 
member what I said to 3^ou on your daughter’s wedding- 
da3^, — why should two old fellows like us quarrel for a 
petticoat? It’s plebeian, vulgar, low-bred; 3^011 and I 
belong to another stripe, — regency, blue doublets. Pom- 
padour, eighteenth centur3’, regular Richelieu; we are, 
and I dare to sa3^ it, connoisseurs in women ! ” 

Crevel might have strung his literar3^ terms together 
for some time longer, for the baron listened as deaf men 
listen when their infirmit3" begins ; but the conqueror 
stopped short, seeing the ghastl3’ face of his enem3^ b3' 
the gleam of a street lamp. The news fell like a thun- 
derbolt on the baron, after the assurances of Madame 
Olivier and Valerie’s last look. 

“Good God! and there were so man3^ other women 
in Paris ! ” he said at last. 

“That’s what I told 3’ou when 3’ou took Josepha,” 
retorted Crevel. 


Cousin Bette, 257 

“ Crevel, I don’t believe it; it is impossible. Give 
me proofs. Have you a key, as I have?” 

And the baron, by this time before the house, plunged 
the key into the lock ; but the door was immovable, and 
he began to shake it. 

“ Don’t make a disturbance,” said Crevel, coolly. 
“ Come, baron, I have better keys than 3 ’ours.” 

“Proofs! proofs!” cried the baron, exasperated by 
his misery till he seemed crazy. 

“Follow me, and I’ll give them to you,” answered 
Crevel ; and then, according to Valerie’s instructions, 
he took the baron toward the quay b^^ the rue Hillerin- 
Bertin. The unfortunate State councillor followed him 
like a merchant on his wa^' to the court of bankruptc}^ 
He was lost in conjectures as to the motives of the 
depravity at the bottom of Valerie’s heart, and he 
believed himself the dupe of some tricker\’. As the}’ 
crossed the pont Royal a sense of his barren life, end- 
ing in nothingness and harassed with financial troubles, 
came over him, and he was on the point of yielding to 
the temptation to throw Crevel into the river and spring 
after him. 

When the}’ reached the rue du Dauphin, which in 
those days had not been widened, Crevel stopped before 
the double door of a small house. This door opened 
upon a long corridor paved with black and white mar- 
ble, which formed a sort of portico, at the end of which 
was the staircase and the porter’s lodge, lighted from 
a small interior court, of which there are so many in 
Paris. This court, which adjoined that of the next 
property, was noticeable as encroaching on the latter. 
Crevel’s house — for he was the owner of the dwelling 
17 


258 


Cousin Bette. 


— had an addition with a glass roof, which was built 
on the adjoining lot of ground, but restricted by an 
injunction from being raised above the ground floor ; it 
was therefore entirely hidden from sight b}' the porter’s 
lodge and the projection of the staircase. 

This structure, of which there are man}* in Paris, 
had long served as a warehouse, back-room, and kitchen 
to one of the two shops on the street. Crevel had em- 
ployed Grindot to detach the three rooms and turn them 
into a small dwelling. It could be entered on two 
sides : first, through the shop, which Crevel let to a 
furnitUre-dealer, at a low rent, and by the month, so 
that he might turn him out and punish him for the 
slightest indiscretion ; and then, by a door so hidden 
in the wall of the corridor as to be almost invisible. 
With the single exception of the upholsterer, all the 
other tenants of the house were unaware of the existence 
of Crevel’s paradise. The portress, paid for silence, was 
an excellent cook. The mayor could go in and out of 
this isolated retreat at all hours of the night without 
dreading suspicious eyes. Ip the daytime a woman, 
dressed as a Parisian woman dresses to go shopping, 
and furnished with a key, risked nothing in visiting 
the place ; she entered the shop as if to make a pur- 
chase, and left it without exciting suspicion in the 
minds of those who met her. 

When Crevel had lighted the candelabra in the bou- 
doir the baron was amazed to see the elegant and 
coquettish luxury of the room. The ex-perfumer had 
given Grindot carte-blanche as to the decorations, and 
the architect of by-gone fame had produced a creation 
in the Pompadour style which cost his employer sixty 


Cousin Bette. 


259 


thousand francs. “ I want it,” Crevel had said to 
Grindot, “ to be so that if a duchess enters the place 
she may be surprised and delighted.” He meant to 
have a perfect Parisian Eden for his Eve, his woman 
of the world, his Valerie, his duchess. 

“There are two beds,” said Crevel, showing a sofa 
which drew out like the drawer of a bureau and formed 
a bed. “ Here is one ; the other is in the next room. 
So we can both pass the night here.” 

“ Proofs ! proofs ! ” cried the baron. 

Crevel took a light and led his friend into the bed. 
room, where, on a sofa, Hulot saw a superb dressing^ 
gown belonging to Valerie, which he had seen hei 
wear in the rue Vanneau. The mayor touched a spring 
in a pretty little article of furniture done in marquetry, 
a coffer or desk called honheur du jour., searched for a 
moment, took out a letter, and handed it to the baron. 

“ Here, read that.” 

The councillor of state read the following note, writ- 
ten in pencil : — 

“ I have waited for you, my old scamp; and a woman like 
me is not born to wait for an ex-perfumer. There was no 
dinner ordered, no cigarettes. You shall pay dear for this.” 

“ Is that her writing? ” said Crevel. 

“ Good heavens!” said Hulot, sitting down over- 
whelmed. I recognize all she ever touched — her slip- 
pers, her caps — Ha, how long is it since — ” 

Crevel made a sign that he understood, and then 
took a bundle of bills from the little desk. 

“Here, old man,” he said; “I paid the builders in 
December, 1838. Two months earlier, in October, we 
occupied this delightful little place.” 


260 


Cousin Bette, 


Hulot bowed his head. “ How could it be? for I 
know how ever}" hour of her time was emplo\"ed.” 

‘ ‘ Did you know how she walked in the Tuileries ? ” 
asked Crevel, rubbing his hands. 

“ What of that?” said Hulot bewildered. 

“ Your so-called mistress was supposed to be walk- 
ing in the gardens from one to four o’clock, but two 
hours of that time she was here. Do you ever read 
Moliere? Well, baron, is there nothing imaginary in 
your claims ? ” 

Hulot, who could doubt no longer, kept a threaten- 
ing silence. Catastrophes always drive intelligent and 
strong-minded men into philosoph}’. Morally, the baron 
was like a man seeking his way through a forest by 
night. But such gloomy silence and the change that 
came over his sunken countenance frightened Crevel, 
who certainly did not wish the death of his enemy. 

“It is just as I told you, old fellow, we are even ; 
let’s play the rubber. — Don’t you want to play the 
rubber ? ” 

“Wh}" is it,” said Hulot, speaking to himself, “that 
out of ten handsome women, seven at least are 
depraved ? ” 

The baron was too upset to find the solution of this 
problem. Beauty is the highest of human powers. All 
power without counterpoise, unshackled and autocratic, 
leads to abuse and to lawlessness. Arbitrar}" power is 
the madness of rulers ; in women it turns to caprice. 

“ You are not to be pitied, comrade ; you have got 
the most beautiful of wives, and she is virtuous.” 

“I deserve my fate,” said Hulot. “I have never 
valued my wife ; I have made her suffer, and she is in- 


Cousin Bette. 


261 


deed an angel. She suffers there alone, in silence — 
yes, she is worthy* of adoration — of love — and I will 
try — for she is still charming, fair and fresh as a 3'oung 
girl — but was there ever such a base, vile, infamous 
creature as that Valerie?” 

“ A worthless woman,” said Crevel ; “a hussy who 
ought to be whipped in the place du Chatelet ; but m3' 
dear Canillac, we may be men of the olden time, Riche- 
lieus. Pompadour, Dubarrj", roues, and all that ’s most 
eighteenth centur3', — but remember, there are no 
longer lettres de cachet!'^ 

“How can a man compel a woman to love him?” 
said Hulot, thinking aloud. 

“It is nonsense to seek to be loved, my dear fellow, 
we are only endured. Madame Marneffe is a hundred 
times more depraved than Josepha — ” 

“And more grasping! she has cost me ninet3'-two 
thousand francs,” cried Hulot. 

“ And how man}" sous?” asked Crevel, with the in- 
solence of a full purse, thinking the sum named a small 
one. 

“I see you don’t love her,” said Hulot, in a melan- 
chol}" tone. 

“I’ve had enough of her,” said Crevel; “she has 
cost me three hundred thousand francs.” 

“ Where has all that mone}^ gone to? what has she ’ 
done with it?” said the baron, seizing his head in both 
hands. 

“ If 3"OU and I had had an understanding in the be- 
ginning, like those little fellows who club together to 
keep some cheap girl, she would n’t have cost either of 
us so much.” 


262 


Cousin Bette, 


“Tliat's an idea!” said the baron; “but even 
then she would trick us. What do you think of that 
Brazilian, my good fellow?” 

“ Ah, you old fox, you are right ; we are both swin- 
dled like — like stockholders,” said Crevel; “those 
women are a regular joint-stock company.” 

“So it was she who told you of the light in the win- 
dow ? ” said the baron. 

“ Old fellow,” said Crevel, assuming his attitude, 
“you and I are both jockeyed ! Valerie is a — She told 
me to keep you here. I see it all I she is with that 
Brazilian. Ah I I ’ll give her up ; for if I held her 
hands she ’d find means to trick me with her feet. She 
is infamous, wanton — ” 

“ Worse than a prostitute ! ” said the baron ; “ Jose- 
pha and Jenny Cadine were at their trade -in deceiving 
us, but she — ” 

“ She, the saint, the prude ! ” cried Crevel. “Hulot, 
go back to your wife ; you don’t stand well in money 
matters ; people are beginning to talk of certain notes 
that you signed for Vauvinet. As for me, I am cured 
of wanting high-bred women. Besides, at our age why 
should we run after such hussies, who, to tell the honest 
truth, can’t help deceiving men of our age. You’ve 
got false teeth and white hair, and I look like Silenus. 
I shall take to accumulating money. Mone}^ never de- 
ceives, — every six months you get something from it ; 
but women cost so much ! Ah, my dear Gubetta, my 
old comrade, if it concerned only you I ’d take the mat- 
ter — well, philosophically ; but as for that Brazilian, 
with his suspicious foreign wealth — ” 

“ Woman,” said Hulot, “ is an inexplicable being.” 


Cousin Bette. 


263 


“ I pan explain her, ” remarked Crevel ; “3’ou and I 
are old, and the Brazilian is young and handsome.” 

“True,” said Hulot, “ I admit we are growing old. 
But, my good friend, how are we ever to do without the 
pretty creatures, looking at us with those si}' smiles as 
they curl their hair ; grimacing and telling lies, and 
complaining that we don’t love them when the}" see us 
troubled about matters, and coaxing us to be happy?” 

“ Yes, faith, it is the onl}’ pleasant thing in life,” said 
Crevel. “Ah! when a pretty face smiles, and says, 
‘ My darling, how nice you are ! I ’m not one of those 
women who adore 3"Oung fellows with pointed beards, 
smoking cigars and vulgar as lacke3’s, — they are in- 
solent because they are 3’oung. You suspect me of 
coquetr}", but I prefer a man fift}" 3’ears old to such 
3’oung fiy ; he is faithful, he knows a woman can’t be 
easily replaced, he appreciates her — that ’s wh}" I love 
3’ou, my old man.’ Ah! when they say that! though 
it is all false — ” 

“ Falsehood is often pleasanter than truth,” said Hu- 
lot, remembering certain charming scenes with Valerie 
which Crevel’s mimicry evoked. “She’s a fair}’; she 
ean metamorphose an old man into a 3’oung one.” 

“ Ah, 3’es,” continued Crevel, “ she ’s an eel, slipping 
through 3’our fingers, — but such a prett}" one ! sweet 
and white as sugar, funny as Arnal, and clever! 
Ah!—” 

“Clever, }’es, clever and witty!” cried the baron, 
who no longer thought of his wife. 

The brethren went to bed the best friends in the 
world, each recalling Valerie’s many perfections, the 
intonations of her voice, her kittenish wa}’s, her ges- 


264 


Cousin Bette. 


tures, her droll sayings, the sallies of her wit, and the 
out-flowings of her heart, — for this artist in love had 
moments of delightful emotion, like tenors who sing an 
air on some days better than on others. The pair went 
to sleep soothed b}’ diabolic reminiscences full of temp- 
tation, and lighted by the fires of hell. 

The next morning at nine o’clock Hulot talked of 
going to the ministry and Crevel of going out of town. 
They left the house together and Crevel offered his hand 
to the baron saying; “ No resentment, I hope? — for 
we have both turned our backs on Madame Marneffe.” 

“ Oh ! it is over and done with,” said Hulot, with an 
expression of disgust. 

At half-past ten Crevel was puffing up Madame 
Marneffe’s staircase. He found that infamous creature, 
that adorable enchantress, in a most coquettish dress- 
ing-gown, eating her breakfast in compan}’ with Baron 
Montez and Lisbeth. In spite of the shock the sight of 
the Brazilian gave him, Crevel asked Madame Marneffe 
to see him alone for two minutes. Valerie took him 
into the salon. 

“Valerie, my angel,” said the infatuated ma^’or, 
“ Monsieur Marneffe has not long to live ; if you will 
be faithful to me we will be married when he dies. So 
make up j^our mind whether that Brazilian is worth 
more than a ma3’or of Paris, — a man who, for your 
sake, will aspire to the highest dignities, and who already 
possesses eight}" and some odd thousands a year.” 

“ I ’ll think of it ; ” she said. “ Expect me at the rue 
du Dauphin at two o’clock, and we will talk about it. But 
be prudent ; and don’t forget the transfer you promised 
me yesterda}’.” 


Cousin Bette. 


265 


She returned to the dining-room, followed by Crevel, 
who flattered himself he had found a way to make her 
wholly his own ; and there the}^ found Baron Hulot, who, 
during their short colloqu}^, had arrived with the same 
purpose in view. The councillor of state also asked for 
a moment’s interview. Madame Marneffe rose again to 
leave the room, smiling at the Brazilian as if to say, 
“ They are both crazy, — don’t the}" see youf^" 

“Valerie,” said Hulot, “my dear child, this cousin 
— is no cousin at all.” 

“ There, that’s enough,” she cried, interrupting him ; 
“ Marneffe has never been, never will be, never can be 
my husband. The first, the only man I ever loved has 
come back without warning me, — is it my fault? Look 
at Henri and look at yourself, and then say if a woman, 
above all where she loves, can hesitate. My dear friend, 
from this day forth I decline to be Susannah with the 
Elders. If you and Crevel want to come here, you 
must come as friends, — but all else is over between 
us ; I am twenty-six years old, and before long I in- 
tend to be a saint, an honorable and excellent wife, — 
like yours.” 

“ Is that how you receive me?” asked Hulot, “ wlien 
I come here like a pope with my hands full of indul- 
gences ! Well, your husband shall never be the head 
of his division nor an officer of the Legion of honor.” 

“We will see about that,” said Madame Marneffe, 
looking at Hulot in a peculiar manner. 

“ Don’t let us get angry,” cried the baron, in despair. 
“ I ’ll come to-night and then we will make it all up.” 

“ Come to Lisbeth’s apartment, then.” 

“ Very good,” said the amorous old man. 


266 


Cousin Bette. 


Hulot and Crevel left the house together without 
sa3dng a word until they reached the street; once 
there, they looked at each other and both laughed 
lugubriously. 

“We are two old fools ! ” said Crevel. 

“ I have got rid of them,” said Madame Marneffe to 
Lisbeth as she returned to the breakfast-table. ‘ ‘ I never 
have loved, never shall love any but my leopard,” she 
added, smiling at Henri Montez. “ Lisbeth, dearest, 
you don’t know ; I must tell j^ou that Henri has for- 
given me all the infamies to which poverty reduced 
me.” 

“It was my fault,” said the Brazilian, “I ought to 
have sent you money.” 

“ Poor child that I was,” cried Valerie, “ I ought to 
have worked for a living ; but my fingers were never 
made for that, — ask Lisbeth.” 

The Brazilian departed the happiest of men. 

Towards midday Valerie and Lisbeth were gossiping 
in the splendid bedroom, where its dangerous mistress 
was bestowing those last touches on her toilet which a 
woman gives with her own fingers. Drawing the bolts 
and curtains carefully, Valerie related, to their minutest 
detail, the events of the evening, of the night, and of 
the morning. 

“Are you satisfied, my jewel?” she said to Lisbeth, 
as the tale ended. “ Which shall I be, Madame Crevel 
or Madame Montez ? What do 3^ou advise ? ” 

“ Crevel can’t live more than ten years, old libertine 
that he is,” answered Lisbeth, “ and Montez is j^oung. 
Crevel will leave you thirty thousand francs a year. 
Let Montez wait ; he will be happy enough as a Ben- 


Cousin Bette, 


267 


jamin. When you are thirty-three you will be as hand- 
some as ever, and then you can marry your Brazilian 
and play" a great role with his money, especially if y^ou 
are under the wing of Madame la marechale.” 

“Yes, but Montez is Brazilian,” remarked Valerie; 
“ he ’ll never be anything in society.” 

“These are the days of railroads,” said Lisbeth ; 
“before long foreigners will become of social conse- 
quence in France.” 

“Time enough when MarnefFe dies,” said Valerie; 
“he hasn’t long to suffer.” 

“ Those pains which return upon him,” remarked Lis- 
beth, “ are like phy sical remorse, as it were. Good-by ; 
I am going to see Hortense,” 

“Well, go, my dearest, and bring me Wenceslas,” 
answered Valerie. “ In three whole years not to have 
conquered one inch of ground ! It is a shame to both 
of us ! Wenceslas and Henri, my two only" passions ; 
one is love, the other fancy.” 

“How beautiful you are this morning !” said Lis- 
beth, putting her arm round Valerie’s waist, and kiss- 
ing her. “I delight in all your pleasures, your luck, 
your pretty dresses. I never really lived before the day 
which made us sisters.” 

“Wait, my tigress,” said Valerie, laughing; “your 
shawl’s awry. You don’t know how to wear a shawl, in 
spite of all my lessons ; and yet you want to be Madame 
la marechale Hulot ! ” 


268 


Cousin Bette. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

WHAT IT IS THAT MAKES A GREAT ARTIST. 

Shod in prunella boots and wearing gray silk stock- 
ings, a handsome silk dress, and her hair in smooth 
bands beneath a very pretty black velvet bonnet lined 
with yellow satin, Lisbeth made her way to the rue 
Saint-Dominique by the boulevard des Invalides, won- 
dering whether the depression so visible in Hortense 
would deliver that strong spirit into her hands, and 
whether Sarmatian inconstancy, played upon at a mo- 
ment when all things are possible with such natures, 
would make the husband’s love for the wife give way. 

Hortense and Wenceslas occupied the ground-floor 
of a house in the rue Saint-Dominique at the point 
where the street ends at the esplanade of the Inva- 
lides. The apartment, formerlj" in keeping with the 
honej^moon, now wore that half-fresh, half-faded appear- 
ance which may be called the autumn of furniture. 
Newly married people are terrible destroyers ; they use 
and abuse things about them as they do love. Full of 
their present, they give very little thought to the future, 
whose cares are to come sooner or later on the mother 
of the family. 

Hortense had just finished dressing a little Wenceslas, 
who was then sent off into the garden. 

“ Good morning, Bette,” said Hortense, opening the 
door herself for her cousin. 


Cousin Bette, 


269 


The cook had gone to market ; the chamber-maid, 
who was also the nurse, was washing. 

“ Good morning, dear,” replied Lisbeth, kissing Hor- 
tense. “Well,” she whispered, “is Wenceslas in his 
studio ? ” 

“No, he is talking to Stidmann and Chanor in the 
salon.” 

“ Can we be alone?” asked Bette. 

“ Come into my bedroom.” 

The room was hung in chintz with a pattern of pink 
roses and green foliage on a white ground, which the 
sun had now faded, together with the colors of the 
carpet. The curtains had not been washed for a long 
time. The odor of Wenceslas’s cigar pervaded the room, 
and the sculptor, born a gentleman and now one of the 
great lords of art, dropped the ashes of his tobacco on 
the arms of the chairs and over the pretty things about 
the room, like a petted man to whom all such liberties 
are allowed, or a rich man who feels he can replace what 
he injures. 

“Now then, let us talk over your affairs,” said Lis- 
beth, looking at her beautiful cousin, who sat silent in 
the eas3'-chair into which she had thrown herself. “ But 
what ’s the matter, dearest? You are pale.” 

“Two more criticisms have been published against 
m}^ poor Wenceslas. That statue to Marechal Mont- 
cornet is said to be very bad. The}’ admit that the bas- 
reliefs are good, to support, with shameful insincerity, 
the assertion that he is only fit for a decorator, and 
that high art is beyond him ! Stidmann, whom I en- 
treated to tell me the truth, says that his opinion 
coincides with that of the critics and the artists and 


270 


Cousin Bette. 


the public. ^If Wenceslas,’ he said to me this morning 
in the garden before breakfast, • does not exhibit a fine 
work next year, he will have to give up sculpture and 
take to decoration, and make designs for jewelrj" and 
silver-ware.’ This opinion terrifies me ; for Wenceslas 
will never conform to it, — he feels, he knows he has 
within him such grand ideas.” 

“People can’t pa}" their expenses with ideas,” said 
Bette; “ I was all the time telling him so. Mone}^ alone 
does it ; and money is only earned by things done^ — 
things that please the middle classes so that they buy 
them. When it is a question of bread and butter the 
sculptor had better model a torch, a fender, a table, 
than a group or a statue ; everybody wants that sort of 
thing, while the amateur of groups and statues with 
plenty of money is long in coming.” 

“ Yes, you are right. My good Lisbeth, tell him so, 
— I have not the courage. Besides, he told Stidmann 
that if he went back to mere decoration he would have 
to renounce the Institute and the great creations of 
art; and we should lose the three hundred thousand 
francs which the minister has promised us for the work 
at Versailles and for the municipality of Paris. That 
is what those cruel articles, inserted by rivals who want 
to get our orders, will deprive us of.” 

“Ah! it’s what 3’ou dreamed of, my poor darling,” 
said Bette, kissing Hortense; “you thought you were 
marrying a nobleman, a leader of art and the chief of 
sculptors. This is what poetry has brought you to! 
Poetry requires fifty thousand francs a year to support 
it, and you have only twenty-four hundred during my 
lifetime, three thousand when I die.” 


Cousin Bette, 


271 


Tears came into Hortense’s eyes ; Bette lapped them 
with a glance, as a cat drinks milk. 

Here follows a succinct history of the first honej’ed 
months of this marriage ; possibly the tale may not 
be lost upon artists. 

Mental toil, search through the higher regions of the 
intellect, is one of the greatest efforts known to man. 
That which is most deserving of fame in art (under 
this term must be included all creations of thought) is 
courage, — a courage of which common souls have 
no conception, and which has never, perhaps, been ex- 
plained until here and now. Driven by the terrible 
pressure of poverty, held in by Bette, like a horse with 
blinders to prevent his seeing right and left along the 
wa}’, lashed by the stern woman, — hard' image of neces- 
sit}^ that subaltern of Fate, — .Wenceslas, born a poet 
and a dreamer, passed from conception to execution 
without measuring the gulf which separates those two 
hemispheres of art. To think, to dream, to conceive 
great works is a delightful occupation. It is like smok- 
ing hashish, or living the life of courtesans given over 
to their caprices. The ideal work appears in all its 
grace of infancy, in the wild joy of generation, with 
the perfumed colors of the flowers, and the sweetness 
of the fruits tasted and inhaled before the}" exist. Such 
is conception and its pleasures. He who can sketch 
out his idea in words passes for an extraordinary man ; 
all writers and artists possess that facult}’. But to pro- 
duce ! to bring the idea to birth ! to raise the child 
laboriously from infancy, to put it nightly to sleep 
surfeited with milk, to kiss it in the mornings with 
the hungry heart of a mother, to clean it, to clothe it 


272 


Cousin Bette. 


fifty times over in new garments which it tears and casts 
away, — and yet not revolt against the trials of this 
agitated life, but to bring out of them the living master- 
piece which speaks to every e^'e in sculpture, to every 
intellect in literature, to the memory of all in painting, 
to the hearts of all in music, — this is execution and 
its toils. The hand must incessantly advance, ready 
at every instant to obey the head ; and 3’et the head 
holds the creative instinct no more at command than 
the heart can bestow love at will. 

This habit of creation, this unwearying maternal love, 
this motherhood (Nature’s masterpiece, so trul}^ com- 
prehended by Raphael !) cerebral motherhood, though 
so difficult to attain, is lost with fatal facility. In- 
spiration is the opportunity of genius. Never does 
it fly low; it is in the air, it darts awaj' with the 
timidit}^ of a bird, no scarf floats from its shoulders 
to the poet’s grasp, its ambient locks are flame ; it 
evades us, like those beauteous rose-and-white fla- 
mingoes, the hunter’s despair. The toil of art is there- 
fore a relentless struggle, which great natures fear yet 
court, often as the}’ are conquered in it. A great poet 
of our day has said, speaking of this toil, ‘ ‘ I take it up 
in dread, I lay it down with regret.” Let the ignorant 
learn this. If an artist does not spring to his work as 
Curtius into the gulf, as the soldier to the breach, without 
reflection ; if, once within the crater, he does not labor 
as a miner buried in the earth ; if he contemplates his 
difficulties instead of conquering them one by one, like 
lovers in fairy-tales who fight with enchanters, up-spring- 
ing from each defeat to attain their mistresses, — the 
work remains unachieved ; it perishes in the studio ; 


Cousin Bette, 


273 


production becomes impossible, and the artist assists 
the suicidfe of his own talent. Rossini, brother-genius 
of Raphael, is a startling example of this truth in the 
ripe and opulent age which followed his indigent and 
toiling youth. 

Wenceslas, by nature a dreamer, had spent such energy 
in producing, in studying, and in working under the des- 
potic rule of Lisbeth that love and happiness brought 
about a reaction. His real character reappeared. In- 
dolence and carelessness, the effeminacy of the Slav, 
returned to the soul from which the master’s whip had 
driven them. For the first few months after his mar- 
riage he thought of nothing but his love for Hortense. 
The pair gave themselves up to the rapturous play of 
legitimate and blissful passion. The wife thus became 
the one to wean the husband from toil ; the caresses of 
a woman put the muse to flight, and weakened the vigor 
and the dogged perseverance of the toiler. Six to seven 
months went b}’ while the sculptor’s hand forgot its 
cunning. When the necessity’ to take up his work came 
on, when the Prince de Wissembourg, chairman of the 
subscription committee, asked to see the statue of Mont- 
cornet, Wenceslas put him off with the speech sacred 
to idlers, “ I am going to set about it.” He satisfied 
his dear Hortense with delusive speeches and the splen- 
did plans of a smoking artist. The wife’s love redoubled 
for her poet ; she foresaw the grandeur of the Moutcornet 
monument. The figure was to represent the idealization 
of intrepid courage, the type of cavalry, the embodied 
boldness of Murat. Why, the mere sight of that statue 
would enable men to imagine all the victories of the 
Emperor. And what execution ! 

18 


274 


Cousin Bette. 


As a matter of actual production in the way of stat- 
ues, a small Wenceslas soon appeared. 

When it became imperative to go to the atelier at the 
Gros-Caillou to handle cla}" and work out the rough 
model, either the prince’s clock required the artist’s 
presence at Florent and Chanor’s workshop, where the 
figures were being chiselled, or the weather was gloom}’ ; 
to-day he had business, to-morrow there was a famil}’ 
dinner, — not to speak of the indispositions of the mind, 
and the headaches of the body, or the days when he 
went pleasuring with an adored wife. The Marechal 
Prince of Wissembourg got angry before he could get 
the statue, and threatened to rescind the order. It was 
only after appeals and angry speeches that the sub- 
scribers finally beheld the clay model. Every day that 
he reall}^ worked Steinbock returned home visibl}" fa- 
tigued ; he complained of such, “mason’s labor,” and 
talked of his physical weakness. The Comtesse Stein- 
bock, adoring her husband in all the happiness of satis- 
fied love, thought the minister very cruel. She went to 
see him, and told him that great works could not be 
hammered out like cannon, that the State should sit, 
like Louis XIV., Francois I., and Leo X., at the feet of 
Genius. Poor Hortense, thinking that her arms em- 
braced a Phidias, showed the maternal cowardice of a 
woman who pushes love into idolatry. “ Don’t press 
yourself,” she said to her husband; “our future is in 
that statue ; take your time, make it 3’our masterpiece.” 
She went often to the atelier. Steinbock, the lover, lost 
five hours out of seven in describing his work instead 
of doing it. It took him eighteen months to complete 
the work of such vital importance to his career. 


Cousin Bette, 


275 


When the plaster was run, and the model actually ex- 
isted, Hortense, having witnessed the physical toil of her 
husband, whose health suffered from the lassitude which 
comes over the bod}^ arms, and hands of sculptors at 
such times, — poor Hortense thought the statue admira- 
ble. Her father, who knew nothing of sculpture, her 
mother, not less ignorant, exclaimed that it was a mas- 
terpiece. The minister of war came ’to inspect it under 
their auspices ; persuaded by them, he declared himself 
satisfied with the cast, which was placed in its proper 
light before S, green curtain. Alas ! at the exhibition 
of 1841 universal disapproval pulled down the idol so 
hastily set up. Stidmann tried to break the fact to his 
friend Wenceslas, and was accused of jealousy. The 
articles in the newspapers seemed to Hortense the snarls 
of envy. Stidmann, kindly soul, instigated other ar- 
ticles contradicting the first, and calling attention to 
the fact that sculptors changed their work so much 
between the plaster and the marble that the latter 
alone ought to be exhibited and judged. “Between 
the design in plaster and the statue in marble,” wrote 
Claude Vignon, “it is quite possible to undo a fine 
thing or make a noble work of art out of a poor one ; 
the plaster is the manuscript, the marble is the book.” 

In the course of two years and a half Steinbock had 
made a statue and a son. The child was divinely beau- 
tiful ; the statue detestable. 

The clock of the Hours, sold to a prince, paid 
the family expenses. Steinbock contracted habits of 
the world, went into society, to the theatre, and the 
opera ; talked admirably upon art and maintained his 
reputation as a great artist by his tongue and his 


276 


Cousin Bette, 


critical disquisitions. There are men of genius in Paris 
who pass their lives in talking themselves out, and are 
content with a sort of salon fame. Steinbock, imi- 
tating those agreeable eunuchs, indulged day by da}* 
his increasing aversion to labor. He saw all the dif- 
ficulties of a work when he tried to begin it, and the 
discouragement to which he yielded relaxed his will. 
Inspiration, the fury of intellectual generation, fled with 
hast}' wing at the very aspect of the sick child. 

Sculpture is like dramatic art, the easiest and at the 
same time the most difficult of all the aCi’ts. Copy a 
model, and the work is done ; but put a soul within it, 
make a type representing man or woman, and the sin of 
Prometheus triumphs. Such successes ma}' be counted 
in the annals of sculpture, as we count poets through- 
out the ages. Michael Angelo, Michel Colomb, Jean 
Goujon, Phidias, Praxiteles, Polycletus, Puget, Canova, 
Albert Diirer are brothers to Milton, Virgil, Dante, 
Shakspeare, Tasso, Homer, and Moliere. The work 
is so grand that one figure alone suffices to give immor- 
talit}' ; witness that of Figaro, of Lovelace, of Manon 
Lescaut, which immortalized Beaumarchais, Richardson, 
and the Abbe Provost. Superficial persons (artists can 
count many in their own fraternity) have said that 
sculpture exists in the nude only, that it died with 
Greece, and that modern garments render it a lost art. 
But, in the first place, the ancients made sublime stat- 
ues entirely draped, like the Polyhymnia, Julia, Agrip- 
pina, etc. Then let true lovers of art go to see Michael 
Angelo’s Pensoso at Florence and Albert Diirer’s Virgin 
in the Cathedral at Mainz, — a living woman beneath 
her triple robes, with hair as soft and flowing as ever 


Cousin Bette. 


277 


woman combed — let persons ignorant of art see these 
things, and all will admit that genius can impregnate 
the coat, the armor, or the robe with thought and fill 
them with a bod}", just as man himself gives his own 
character and the habits of his life to his garments. 
Sculpture is the constant realization of that distinctive 
thing in painting which goes bj the supreme name of 
Kaphael. The solution of the problem can be found 
only through incessant and sustained work ; for the ma- 
terial diflSculties must be so wholly vanquished, the 
hand so trained, so ready, so obedient, that the sculp- 
tor shall be enabled to struggle soul to soul with that 
invisible moral nature which must be transfigured while 
materializing it. If Paganini, who told out his soul on 
the strings of his violin, had spent three days without 
studying he would have become an ordinary violinist. 
Constant toil is the law of art, as it is of life ; for art 
is idealized creation. Thus great artists, true poets, 
never await orders nor expect bu^^ers ; they generate 
and give birth to-da}", to-morrow, ever. From this 
habit of labor results a ceaseless comprehension of 
diflSculties, which keeps them in communion with the 
muse and her creative forces. Canova lived in his ate- 
lier as Voltaire lived in his study. Homer and Phidias 
must have done likewise. 

Wenceslas Steinbock was on the arid way trod by 
these greatest men — the way that leads to Alps of 
glory — when Lisbeth chained him in his garret. ‘Hap- 
piness in the form of Hortense had made the poet in- 
dolent, the normal condition of all artists ; for idleness 
with them is occupation ; it is the pleasure of pachas 
in the seraglio. They caress ideas, and grow intox- 


278 


Cousin Bette, 


icated at the fountains of the mind. Great artists like 
Steinbock, given over to reverie, are not unjustly" called 
dreamers. Such opium-eaters often die in misery, when, 
had circumstances forced them to inflexible efforts, they 
would have been great men. These semi-artists are 
alwa^’s charming ; men like them, and make them drunk 
with praise. Thej^ seem superior to other and truer 
artists, who are accused of self-assertion, aloofness, and 
rebellion against social customs, — and for this reason : 
great men belong to their works. Their detachment 
from the things of life, and their devotion to their own 
ideas, make them egoists to the eye of fools, who ex- 
pect them to be dressed like dandies and to perform 
those conventional evolutions called “duty to societ}".” 
They want an African lion combed and curled like the 
poodle of a countess. Such artists, having few peers 
among their fellows, and meeting them seldom, fall 
into the exclusiveness of solitude ; they become inex- 
plicable for the majority, — composed, as we know, of 
fools and of ignorant, envious, and superficial people. 
We can imagine the part a woman has to pla3" beside 
these lofty exceptions. She must be, on the one hand, 
all that Lisbeth had been to Wenceslas for five 3- ears, 
and give him love besides, — humble, discreet, ever- 
smiling, ever-present love. 

Hortense, warned by the trials of her mother and 
harassed by terrible necessities, saw too late the fault 
her excessive love had led her involuntarily to commit ; 
but, worthy daughter of a noble mother, her heart re- 
fused to admit the idea of wounding Wenceslas. She 
loved her poet too deepl}^ to be his executioner, 
and she awaited the coming moment when poverty 


Cousin Bette. 279 

would be upon them all, — her husband, her son, and 
herself. 

“ Come, come, dear child,” said Bette, seeing the 
tears in her cousin’s e^^es ; “you must not despair. A 
cupful of tears could n’t buy a plateful of soup. How 
much do 3^ou want ? ” 

“ Five or six thousand francs.” 

“ I have onl}' three thousand at the most,” said Lis- 
beth. “ What is Wenceslas doing?” 

‘ ‘ The}’ have asked him to design a dinner-service 
for the Due d’Herouville for six thousand francs ; Stid- 
mann is to do it with him, and Chanor promises to pay 
the four thousand francs Wenceslas owes to Leon de 
Lora and Bridau, — a debt of honor.” 

“What! did Wenceslas receive the mone}’ for the 
statue and the bas-reliefs of the monument to Mont- 
cornet and not pa^" that debt ? ” 

“ But,” said Hortense, “ for three years past we have 
spent twelve thousand francs a 3'ear. The monument, 
after paying all costs, did not bring us in more than 
sixteen thousand francs. In fact, if Wenceslas does not 
work I don’t see what will become of us. Ah ! if I could 
learn to make statues, how I would work the clay ! ” she 
said, stretching out her beautiful arms. 

It was eas3' to see that the woman fulfilled the prom- 
ise of the girl. Her e3"e flashed, and red blood flowed 
impetuously in her veins. She regretted that she was 
obliged to spend her energ3’ on the care of her child. 

“Ah, m3^ little treasure, a wise girl wouldn’t have 
married an artist till he had made his fortune.” 

The sound of steps, and the voices of Stidmann 
and Wenceslas showing Chanor to the door were 


280 


Cousin Bette. 


heard; and presently" Wenceslas entered with Stid- 
mann. Stidinann, an artist much thought of in the 
world of journalists and of celebrated actresses, was an 
elegant young man, whom Madame Marneffe had made 
Claude Vignon present to her. Stidmann had just 
ended his relations with the famous Madame Schontz,, 
who had lately married in the provinces. Valerie and 
Lisbeth, who had known of the rupture through Vignon, 
thought it desirable to attract the friend of Wenceslas 
to the rue Vanneau. As Stidmann seldom visited the 
Steinbocks, and Lisbeth had been absent at the time 
of his presentation by Claude Vignon, she now saw him 
for the first time. While observing the young man she 
detected certain glances cast at Hortense, which made 
her think it possible he might console her in case Wen- 
ceslas was unfaithful. Stidmann did, in fact, feel that 
if Steinbock were not his friend, Hortense would be an 
adorable mistress ; and the feeling, restrained by honor, 
kept him from the house. Lisbeth noticed in his man- 
ner the tell-tale embarrassment which hampers a man 
in presence of a woman with whom he feels forbidden 
to flirt. 

“He is very good-looking,” she whispered to Hor- 
tense. 

“ Do 3’ou think so? ” answered Hortense. “ I never 
noticed it.” 

“ Stidmann, old fellow,” said Wenceslas, in a low 
voice, “I won’t stand on ceremony with a friend, — 
the fact is, we have some business to talk over with the 
old maid.” 

Stidmann bowed to the two ladies and withdrew: 

“It is all settled,” said Wenceslas, returning to the 


Cousin Bette. 


281 


salon after accompanying Stidmann to tlie door. “ But 
such a work will take six months, and how are we to 
live in the meantime?” 

“ I have my diamonds,” cried Hortense, with the gen- 
erous ardor of a loving woman. 

The tears came into her husband’s e3’es. 

“ Oh ! I will work,” he answered, sitting down beside 
his wife and taking her on his knee. “ I ’ll work at 
trifles, wedding presents, bronze groups — ” 

“But, my dear children,” said Lisbeth, “ j’ou know 
3’ou are m^’ heirs ; and I shall leave 3 011 a pretty little 
sum, especiall3" if 3’ou help me to marry’ the marshal. 
If that comes about soon I ’ll take you to live with 
me — 3’ou and Adeline. Ah, how happy’ we could be 
together ! But now listen to the advice of my experi- 
ence. Don’t resort to the Mont-de-piete ; it is the ruin 
of borrowers. I have never known them able to pay' 
the interest when it came to redeeming their property’, 
and so all is lost. I will get y ou a loan of money at 
five per cent on your own note only.” 

“Ah, that will save us,” cried Hortense. 

“Well then, Wenceslas must go and see the per- 
son who will do y’ou this service to oblige me. It is 
Madame Marneffe ; if you flatter her, for she ’s as 
vain as all parvenus, she ’ll help you out of your 
troubles in the kindest w’ay. Pay her a visit, my dear 
Hortense.” 

Hortense looked at Wenceslas with an expression 
such as a condemned man mounting the scaflbld might 
be expected to wear. 

“ Claude Vignon took Stidmann there,” said Wences- 
las ; “ it is a very’ pleasant house.” 


282 


Cousin Bette, 


Hortense bowed her head ; what she felt was not 
grief, it was actual malad}’. 

“But, my dear Hortense, you should give in to the 
ways of life,” cried Lisbeth, comprehending the elo- 
quence of the wife’s gesture ; “if not, 3’ou will, like 
3'our mother, be exiled to a deserted chamber to weep 
for Ul^’sses, — another Cal^’pso, in an age when there is 
no longer a Telemaque ! ” she added, quoting one of 
Madame Marnefte’s sarcasms. “You should regard 
people as utensils, to be taken or left according to the 
use you can make of them. Make use of Madame 
Marneffe, and get rid of her later. Are you afraid that 
Wenceslas, who adores j'ou, will fall in love with a 
woman four or five 3’ears older than 3'OU, and as faded 
as a bale of ha3" ? ” 

“I would rather pawn my diamonds,” said Hortense. 
“ Oh, don’t go there, Wenceslas ! it is hell ! ” 

“Hortense is right,” said Wenceslas, kissing his wife. 

“Thank 3"OU,” she said, smiling. “There, Lisbeth, 
see, m3" husband is an angel. He never gambles ; he 
goes wherever I go, and if he could onh’ take up his 
work and do it I should be perfecth’ happ3". Why 
should we visit m3" father’s mistress ? — a woman who has 
ruined him, and caused our noble mother such bitter 
grief that she is dying of it — ” 

“ My dear child, your father’s ruin is not her work; 
it was that singer in the first place, and then your mar- 
riage,” answered Bette. “Madame Marneffe is very 
useful to him — there ! I ought not to speak of it.” 

“You have a good word for everybody, dear Bette.’’ 

The baby’s cries called Hortense into the garden, and 
Lisbeth was left alone for a moment with Wenceslas. 


Cousin Bette. 


283 


“Your wife is an angel, Wenceslas,” she said. Be 
sure- you love her truly ; don’t give her any cause for 
unhappiness.” 

“Yes, I love her so much that I conceal our real 
situation from her,” answered Wenceslas, “but to you, 
Lisbeth, I can speak plainl}". Even if my wife pawned 
her diamonds we should be no better off.” 

“ Well then, borrow of Madame Marneffe,” said 
Bette. “ Either persuade Hortense to let you go, or 
else go without her knowledge.” 

“That’s what I was thinking of when I refused to 
go so as to spare her feelings,’’ answered Wenceslas. 

“ Wenceslas, I love you both too well not to warn 
3'ou of danger. If you go there, keep firm hold of your 
heart, for that woman is a demon ; every man who sees 
her adores her, — she is so vicious, so alluring, she fas- 
cinates like a masterpiece of art. Borrow her money 
but don’t leave 3’our soul in pawn. I should never 
forgive mj^self if Hortense were betrayed. Here she 
is,” added Bette ; “ say no more, I’ll arrange it all.” 

“ Thank Lisbeth, dear love,” said Steinbock to his 
wife ; “ she will lend us her savings to get us out of 
trouble.” 

“ Then, my dearest, I hope )"Ou can go to work at 
once,” said Hortense, 

“Yes,” replied the artist, to-morrow.” 

It is to-morrow that has ruined us,” said Hortense, 
smiling on him. 

“My dear child, 3’ou know 3^ourself the hindrances 
and difficulties and other business that have kept me 
back.” 

“ Yes, 3’ou are right, dear love.” 


284 


Cousin Bette. 


“Here,” cried Steinbock striking his brow, “ I have 
ideas ! I shall amaze and confound my enemies. I shall 
make a dinner-service in the German manner of the 
sixteenth century, — the rhapsodic manner ! I will cradle 
infants in the foliage and fill it with darting insects, and 
twine it round chimeras, true chimeras, the embodiment 
of dreams ! ah ! I grasp them ! It shall all be tangled, 
airy, feathery ! — Chanor was enchanted with the idea. 
— I need encouragement, for that last article on the 
Montcornet monument broke me down.” 

Lisbeth and Wenceslas, seizing a moment when they 
were alone together, agreed that the latter should call 
the next day on Madame Marneffe, either with or with- 
out his wife’s knowledge and permission. 


Cousin Bette, 


285 


CHAPTER XXII. 

AN ARTIST, YOUNG AND A POLE, WHAT ELSE COULD 
HAVE BEEN EXPECTED? 

Valerie, informed at once of Bette’s success, exacted 
from Baron Hulot an invitation to dinner for Stidmann, . 
Claude Vignon, and Steinbock ; for she was beginning 
to tyrannize over him as such women tjTannize over 
old men, who are made to trot about town and supply 
whatever is necessary to the interests and vanities of 
their hard mistresses. 

On the morrow Valerie put herself under arms in one 
of those toilets which Parisian women invent when thej- 
wish to make the most of their beauty. She studied her- 
self in this operation, as a man about to fight a duel stud- 
ies his feints and thrusts ; not a fold was out of place, 
not a wrinkle to be seen. Valerie was in her freshest 
beauty, — all softness and delicacy. All eyes were in- 
sensibly attracted by her mouche. It is supposed that 
the mouches of the eighteenth century are lost or sup- 
pressed, but that is a mistake. The women of our day 
are cleverer than those of former times ; they entice the 
opera-glasses by daring stratagems. One invents a knot 
of ribbon in the centre of which a diamond sparkles, and 
she monopolizes all eyes for a whole evening ; another 
resuscitates the Spanish hair-net, or sticks a dagger in 
her braids ; a third puts on black velvet bracelets, or 


286 


Cousin Bette, 


lace lappets. These brave efforts, these Austerlitzes of 
coquetry or love, set the fashion of the day to lower 
spheres when these happy creatures of a higher discard 
them for others. On this particular evening Valdrie, 
who was resolved to succeed, wore three mouches. She 
made Reine wash her hair with a lotion that turned it 
for a few days from a golden to a flaxen tint. Madame 
Steinbock was a glowing blonde, and Valerie was re- 
solved not to resemble her in any way. This new color- 
ing gave an unusual and piquant expression to Valerie’s 
whole person, which so preoccupied the faithful that 
Montez whispered in surprise, “ What has happened to 
you this evening?” For the second mouche she wore 
a black velvet ribbon round her throat, which relieved 
the exquisite whiteness of her skin. The third ma^^ be 
compared to the ex-assassine'’ of our grandmothers, 
namel}^, the prettiest of rose-buds nestling in the chain- 
ing hollow of her breast. 

‘‘I’m appetizing! ” she said to herself, going through 
her attitudes before the glass, as a danseuse practises 
her curtsey. 

Lisbeth had gone to market, for the dinner was to 
be one of those superfine repasts such as Mathurine 
had cooked for the late prelate when he entertained the 
bishop of the adjoining diocese. 

Stidmann, Claude Vignon, and Comte Steinbock ar- 
rived almost together at six o’clock. A common — or, 
if you please, natural — woman would have come for- 
ward eagerty on the announcement of the long-wished- 
for name ; but Valerie, who had been ready and waiting 
since five o’clock, now made her guests wait for her, 
certain that she was the topic of their conversation and 


Cousin Bette. 


287 


their secret thoughts. While directing the arrangements 
of the salon she herself had placed about the room those 
delicious little baubles which Paris, and no other city, 
is capable of producing, — costl}^ trifles which reveal a 
woman, and, as it were, announce her ; keepsakes of 
enamel and mother-of-pearl ; cups full of charming rings ; 
treasures of Sevres and Dresden china mounted in ex- 
quisite taste by Florent and Chanor ; statuettes, albums, 
knick-knacks costing fabulous sums, which passion buys 
in its first delirium or for a last make-peace. Valerie 
was, moreover, in the glow of intoxication consequent 
on success. She had promised Crevel to be his wife if 
Marneffe died, and the amorous mayor had transferred 
the capital of ten thousand francs a year to the name 
of Valerie Fortin, the sum total of his transactions in 
railway’s for the last three years, — in short, the whole 
of the two hundred thousand francs which he had offered 
as a bribe to Madame Hulot. Valerie now possessed an 
income of thirty-two thousand francs. But Crevel had 
just made a promise of far greater importance than the 
gift of mone}’. During the paroxysm of passion into 
which his duchess (he gave that title to Madame de Mar- 
netfe to carry out his illusions) plunged him between 
two and four of an afternoon, he felt obliged to encour- 
age her continued fidelity by holding out the prospect 
of a pretty little mansion which an imprudent builder 
had put up in the rue Barbette and now desired to part 
with. Valerie imagined herself the possessor of a charm- 
ing house “ between court and garden” and a carriage. 

“ Can a virtuous life give all that as quickly and as 
easily? — tell me that,” she said to Bette, as she finished 
dressing. 


288 


Cousin BettCo 


Lisbeth dined with her on this occasion to be able to 
sa}’ to Steinbock those things that persons cannot say 
for themselves. Madame Marneffe, radiant in happi- 
ness, entered the salon with modest grace, followed by 
Bette, dressed in black and yellow, who served, to use 
the language of studios, as a foil. 

“ Good evening, Claude,’’ she said, offering her hand 
to the celebrated critic. 

Claude Vignon had become, like so many other lit- 
erar}^ men of the time, a politician, — the new word 
coined to express the first stage of a man ambitious of 
public honors. The politician of 1840 is, in a way, the 
ahhe of the eighteenth century. No salon is now com- 
plete without him. 

“ Dear, this is my cousin, Comte Steinbock,” said 
Lisbeth, presenting Wenceslas, whom Valerie had pre- 
tended not to see. 

“ I remember Monsieur le comte,” said Valerie, with 
a gracious inclination of her head. ‘‘1 saw you fre- 
quently in the rue du Doyenne, and I had the pleas- 
ure of being present at 3 'our marriage. M}’ dear,” she 
added, turning to Lisbeth, “it would be difficult to 
forget your ex-son, even if I had seen him but once. 
Monsieur Stidmann is very good,” she continued, bow- 
ing to the sculptor, “ to accept my invitation at such 
short notice ; but necessity has no law. I knew you 
were intimate with these gentlemen. There is nothing 
so dull and awkward as a dinner where the guests do 
not know each other, and I ventured to invite you for 
their sakes. But you will come again for mine, — will 
you not? Say 3 ’es!” 

She walked about the room for a time with Stid- 


Cousin Bette. 


289 


mann, seeming quite absorbed in him. The footman an- 
nounced successively Monsieur Crevel, Baron Hulot, 
and a deputy named Beauvisage. This personage, a 
provincial Crevel, one of those beings who are sent 
into the world mereh^ to swell its numbers, voted under 
the banner of Giraud, councillor of state, and Victorin 
Hulot. These two politicians were trying to form a 
nucleus of progressists in the great phalanx of con- 
servatives. Giraud dined sometimes with Madame 
Marneffe, who flattered herself she might also in time 
get Victorin Hulot; but the puritan lawyer had so 
far found various pretexts to decline his father-in-law’s 
invitations. To dine with the woman who was the 
cause of his mother’s tears seemed to him criminal. 
Victorin Hulot was to the puritanical politicians of 
the day what a pious woman is to a sanctimonious 
one. Beauvisage, formerly a hosier at Arcis, was 
anxious to acquire the “ Parisian style.” Puffed up 
with his election to the Chamber, he was being 
“formed” in the salon of the delightful and fascina- 
ting Madame Marnefle, who persuaded him to take 
Crevel, to whom he was much attracted, as his model,, 
and mentor ; he consulted him in everything, asked 
the address of his tailor, imitated him, even tried to 
assume his attitude, — in short, Crevel became his 
prototype. Valerie, surrounded by these personages, 
seemed to Wenceslas a distinguished woman, and all 
the more so because Claude Vignon praised her in the 
language of a lover : — 

“ She is Madame de Maintenon in Ninon’s petti- 
coats,” said the former critic. “To please her is an 
affair of an evening if you are witty ; but to win her 
19 


290 


Cousm Bette. 


love is a triumph which might suffice a man’s pride, and 
satisfy his whole being.” 

Valerie, apparently cold and indifferent to her former 
neighbor in the rue du Doyenne, touched his vanity 
without knowing it, for she was ignorant of the Polish 
character. There is a childlike side to the Slav nature, 
as in all primitive peoples, of whom it ma}’ be said that 
they irrupted among civilized nations instead of becom- 
ing civilized themselves. The race has spread like an 
inundation and now covers an immense portion of the 
earth’s surface. It inhabits deserts where the free space 
is so vast that its peoples feel at their ease ; it rubs 
shoulders with no other races (as the European nations 
do) , and civilization is impossible without the constant 
friction of ideas and interests. The Ukraine, Russia, the 
plains of the Danube, the whole Slav race and region 
are in fact the point of union between Europe and Asia, 
between civilization and barbarism. Thus the Poles, the 
finest specimen of the Slav peoples, show a childlikeness, 
an inconstancj’ of nature characteristic of immature na- 
tions. They possess courage, intellect, and strength, 
but these qualities, weakened by inconstancy' and incon- 
sistency', have no method and no intelligence. The Poles 
are variable as the w'ind which sweeps across their vast 
plains intersected by' marshes ; if they' have the impet- 
uosity of a tornado as it twists trees and dwellings and 
sweeps them away% like an avalanche of the air they 
drop into the nearest pond and dissolve into w'ater. 
Men take some of their characteristics from their sur- 
roundings. The Poles, ever at war with the Turks, de- 
rived from them a love of Oriental magnificence ; they 
often sacrifice the needful to the brilliant, they decorate 


Cousin Bette, 


291 


their persons like women, and 3^et their climate has 
given them the hard}- constitution of Arabs. It thus 
happens that the Polish nation, sublime in its sorrows, 
has allowed its oppressors to strike it down again and 
again, and has renewed in the nineteenth century' the 
spectacle of the earl}^ Christian martyrs. Put ten per 
cent of British trickerj- into the frank and open na- 
ture of the Pole and the generous white eagle would 
reign where the double-headed bird now sails. A little 
machiavelism would have kept Poland from saving Aus- 
tria, who shared in the partition ; from borrowing money" 
of Prussia, the usurer who undermined her ; and from di- 
viding herself at the time of the first partition. At the 
baptism of Poland some faiiy Carabosse, unobserved by' 
the other fairies who endowed that attractive nation with 
so many brilliant qualities, must have appeared and said : 
“Keep the gifts my" sisters bring you, but remember, 
y'ou shall desire and never know what it is you want.” 
If Poland had triumphed in her heroic duel with Russia 
the Poles would have fought each other to-day' as they- 
formerly" fought in their Diets to hinder one or another 
from becoming king. The day" when that nation, com- 
posed as it is of none but generous natures, will have 
the common-sense to take a Louis XI. from its own 
loins, and accept his tyranny and his dynasty, it will 
be saved. 

What Poland has been politically’, Poles may be said 
to be in their private lives, especially when trouble over- 
takes them. Wenceslas Steinbock, who for three years 
past adored his wife and knew himself her god, was so 
piqued because Madame Marneffe scarcely deigned to 
notice him that he made it a point of honor to force 


292 


Cousin Bette, 


some attention out of her. Comparing Valerie with his 
wife he gave the palm to the former. Hortense was a 
beautiful piece of flesh and blood, as Valerie had said 
to Lisbeth, but with Madame Marneffe there were 
charms of mind in the very form and piquanc}’ of 
vice. The wife’s devotion seemed to the husband to 
be his due; the sense of the enormous value of an 
absolute love is often lost, as a debtor fancies after a 
time that the mone}’ lent is really his. The wife’s sub- 
lime loyalty becomes, as it were, the daily bread of the 
soul, while infldelit}' has the sugared sweetness of a 
dainty. A haughty woman, above all a dangerous one, 
excites curiosity just as spices season plain fare. Dis- 
dain, which Valerie played so well, was a novelty for 
Wenceslas after three years of facile pleasures. Be- 
sides, Hortense was the wife, Valerie the mistress. 
Many men desire these two editions of the same work ; 
though it is a great proof of a man’s inferior nature 
when he does not know how to make his wife his mis- 
tress. Constanc}’ will ever be the genius of Love ; the 
sign of an immense force, — the force that constitutes a 
poet. A man should find all women in his wife, — just 
as the soiled poets of the seventeenth century made 
Chloes and Daphnes of their Manons. 

“ Well,” said Lisbeth to Wenceslas, as soon as she 
saw him thoroughly fascinated, “ what do you think of 
Valerie?” 

“ Too charming ! ” he answered. 

You would n’t listen to me,” exclaimed Bette. ‘ ‘ Ah, 
my little Wenceslas! if you and I had stayed to- 
gether you should have been the lover of this siren ; 
you should have married her when she became a widow, 


Cousin Bette, 293 

and had the benefit of her forty thousand francs a 
year/' i 

“ Has she all that? " 

“ Certainly,” said Bette. “ But take care now what 
you- are about ; I have warned you of your danger ; 
don’t burn your fingers. Come, give me your arm, din- 
ner is ready.” 

No speech could have been more demoralizing to a 
Pole ; show him a precipice and he springs over it 
The Polish race has the distinctive genius of cavalry ; 
it believes in flinging itself headlong against obstacles 
and coming out victorious. The spur with which Lis- 
beth prodded his vanity was enforced by the scene 
in the dining-room, where an exquisite silver service 
made him conscious of the elegancies and refinements 
of Parisian luxury. 

“ I should have done better,” he reflected, “to have 
married Celimene.” 

During dinner Hulot, who was pleased to find his 
son-in-law present, and still more pleased at the cer- 
tainty of reconciliation with Valerie, of whose fidelity 
he now felt sure, since he could promise her Coquet’s 
place, made himself delightful. Stidmann responded to 
the baron’s bonhomie with the wit and sparkle of Pa- 
risian pleasantry, and with his own artistic Atticism. 
Steinbock would not suffer his comrade to eclipse him ; 
he displayed his powers, sharpened his wit, produced an 
effect, and was satisfied with himself ; Madame Marneffe 
smiled at him once or twice to show that she fully un- 
derstood him. The good cheer and the heady wines 
plunged him finally into what we must call a slough 
of pleasure. Excited by the flowing bowl, he flung 


294 


Cousin Bette. 


himself after dinner on a sofa in a state of phj’sical and 
spiritual happiness, which Madame Marneffe lifted into 
the seventh heaven by placing herself beside him, light 
as a bird, perfumed and bewitching enough to seduce an 
angel. She bent toward Wenceslas and almost touched 
his ear with her lips as she said in a low voice : — 

“We cannot talk business to-night unless 3’ou will 
remain after the others. Between 3’ou and me and 
Lisbeth it will be easy to arrange matters.” 

“Ah, you are an angel, madame,” said Wenceslas, 
replying in the same low tone. “ I was indeed a fool 
not to have listened to Lisbeth — ’’ 

“ What did she tell 3'ou ? ” 

“ She hinted, in the rue du Doyenn^, that 3"Ou might 
love me.” 

Madame Marneffe looked at Steinbock, seemed con- 
fused, and rose abruptl3 . A 3"Oung and prett3' woman 
never awakens in a man’s mind the idea of immediate 
success with impunit3\ Valerie’s response, the gesture 
of a virtuous woman repressing a passion hidden in her 
heart, w as a thousand-fold more eloquent than the most 
passionate assurance. 

Wenceslas, ardently excited, redoubled his efforts to 
please her. The woman in sight is the woman wanted. 
That is the terrible power of actresses. Madame Mar- 
neffe, knowing that she was being studied, behaved like 
an applauded actress. She made herself delightful and 
her triumph was absolute. 

“My father-in-law’s passion no longer surprises me,” 
said Wenceslas to Lisbeth. 

“ If you talk so, Wenceslas,” she replied “I shall re- 
gret all my life having persuaded you to borrow those 


Cousin Bette. 


295 


ten thousand francs. Can it be that you are like all the 
rest,” making a sign towards the others, “madly in 
love with that creature? Would you be the rival of 
your own father-in-law? Besides, reflect on the sorrow > 
you would cause Hortense.” 

“ That is true,” said Wenceslas. “ Hortense is an 
angel,, and I should be a monster.” 

“ One is enough in a famil}’,” remarked Lisbeth. 

“ Artists should never marry,” cried Steinbock. 

“Ah! that’s what you said to me in the rue du 
Doyenne. Your children were to be those groups and 
statues and masterpieces ! ” 

“ What are you talking of ? ” said Valerie, coming up 
to them. ‘ ‘ Please pour out tea, cousin.” 

Steinbock, with Polish vain-glory, wished to seem 
intimate with the fairy mistress of the salon. He 
glanced insolently at Stidmann, Claude Vignon, and 
Crevel, and then, seizing Valerie by the hand, he com- 
pelled her to sit down by him on the sofa. 

“ You are too autocratic, Comte Steinbock,” she said, 
making a slight resistance. 

Then she laughed as she dropped beside him, and let 
him see the rosebud nestling in her bosom. 

“ Alas ! if I were that, I should not be here now as 
a borrower,” he said. 

“Poor fellow — I remember 3’our toilsome nights in 
the rue du Doyenne. You were foolish, were you not? 
you married as a hungr}^ man snatches bread. You did 
not know Paris, and see the result ! You turned a deaf 
ear to Bette’s devotion — as well as to other love — .” 

“ Say no more,” cried Steinbock, “you annihilate me.” 

“You shall have your ten thousand francs, my dear 


296 


Cousin Bette, 


Wenceslas, but on one condition,” she said, playing 
with her pretty curls. 

“ And that is? — ” 

“Well, I can receive no interest.” 

“ Madame ! ” . 

“Oh, don’t be displeased ; you can make me a bronze 
gi’oup in pa3’ment. You began the stor}^ of Samson ; 
well, finish it. Make Delilah cutting the hair of the 
Jewish Hercules. You, who could be a great artist if 
3’ou would only listen to me, you will understand the 
subject. The point is to express the power of woman. 
Samson plays no part in it; he is the dead bod}" of 
power. Delilah is passion destroying all. How that 
replica — is that what j'ou call it? ” she added cleverl}*, 
seeing Stidmann and Claude Vignon approach on hear- 
ing this talk of art, “ how far more beautiful this 
replica of the stor}" of Hercules at the feet of Om- 
phale is, than the Greek legend. Did Greece obtain it 
from Judea, or did Judea take the sj^mbol from the 
Hellenes?” 

“ Ah, madame, there 3’ou raise a serious question,” 
said Claude Vignon, — “ that of the periods at which the 
various books of the Bible were written. The immortal 
Spinosa, so idioticall}" classed among atheists — a man 
who proved, mathematical!}", the existence of God ! — 
declared that Genesis, and what may be called the po- 
litical part of the Bible, was written in the time of 
Moses ; he showed the interpolations by philological 
facts — for which he was stabbed three times at the 
door of the sanctuary.” 

“ I did not know I was so learned,” said Valerie, an- 
noyed to have her tete-a-tete interrupted. 


Cousin Bette, 


297 


“ Women know all intuitivelj*,” replied Vignon. 

“Well, will you promise me to make the group?” 
she said to Stein bock, taking his hand with the modest 
hesitation of a girl in love. 

“You are a happy man if madame asks you for 
anything,” said Stidmann. 

“ What is it? ” asked Claude Vignon. 

“A little bronze group,” answered Steinbock. “De- 
lilah cutting Samson’s hair.” 

“Difficult,” remarked Vignon, “on account of the 
bed — ” 

“ No, veiy easy,” said Valerie, smiling. 

“ Make us the design ! ” exclaimed Stidmann. 

“ Madame must give the model for that design,” said 
Claude, with a meaning glance at Valerie. 

“ Well,” she replied, smiling, “this is how I under- 
stand the subject : Samson wakes up without his hair 
— like many a dandy who wears a wig ! The hero can 
sit on the side of the bed ; you need only show part of 
it half hidden by the sheets and curtains. He sits there 
like Marius in the ruins o^ Carthage, his arms crossed, 
his head shorn, Napoleon at Saint-Helena, or what you 
please ! Delilah kneels — a good deal like Canova’s 
Magdalen. When a woman ruins a man she always 
idolizes him ; in my opinion the Jewess was afraid of 
Samson when he was terrible and powerful, but she 
must have loved him when she had made him helpless. 
So she regrets what she has done, and longs to give 
him back his hair ; she scarcely" dares look at him ; 
then she does look at him, smiling, for she sees her 
pardon in Samson’s weakness. Such a group, coupled 
with one of that savage Judith, might reall3’ be called 


298 


Cousin Bette. 


Woman Explained. Vice cuts off the hair, but virtue 
cuts off the head. Ah ! take care of 3’our locks, gentle- 
men ! ” 

And she left the two artists and the critic, who all 
three sang praises in her honor. 

“ Delightful ! ” said Stidmann. 

‘‘ She is the most intelligent and the most desira- 
ble woman I have ever known,” said Claude Vignon. 
“ Such a union of beauty and intellect is rare indeed.” 

“If 3’ou, who have the happiness of knowing Camille 
Maupin intimately, can sa3^ that,” replied Stidmann^ 
“what must the rest of us think?” 

“ M3’ dear count, if 3’ou will make 3’our Delilah a 
portrait of Valerie,” said Crevel, leaving the card-table 
where he had overheard the conversation, “ I will give 
3’ou three thousand francs for a cop3’. Yes, hang it all, 
I ’m willing to go that.” 

“ ‘ Go that ’? — what does he mean? ” asked Beau- 
visage of Claude Vignon. 

“If madame could be induced to sit,” said Steinbock 
to Crevel. “ Will 3’ou ask her? ” 

Just then Valerie herself brought Steinbock a cup of 
tea. It was more than a courtesy, it was a favor. 
There is an unspoken language in the wa3’ a woman 
gives a man his tea which the sex thoroughl3^ under- 
stand ; it is in fact a curious study to watch her move- 
ments, gestures, glances, tones, and accents as she per- 
forms this apparently simple act of politeness. In that 
varied question, “ Do 3’Ou take tea?” “Will you have 
some tea ? ” “A cup of tea ? ” — var3’ing from the cold 
formula of the nymph who sits at the urn to the 
poem of the odalisque who comes, cup in hand, to 


Cousin Bette. 


299 


the pacha of her heart, and offers it submissively in 
caressing tones and with looks full of pleasurable prom- 
ise — a phj^siologist may find the whole round of fe- 
male sentiments, from aversion and indifference to the 
offer of Phedre to Hippol^i;e. In that little act women 
can make themselves, at will, disdainfully insulting, or 
submissive as an Eastern slave. Valerie was more than 
woman ; she was the serpent made woman, and she 
crowned her diabolical work by approaching Steinbock 
with a cup of tea. 

“I will take as many as you bring me,” whispered 
the artist rising and touching Valerie’s hand with his 
own as he took the cup ‘ ‘ if you will give them to me 
thus.” 

“ What were you sa3dng about m}^ sitting to you?” 
she asked, without appearing to notice the declaration 
she had so eagerljr awaited. 

“ Old Crevel offers me three thousand francs for your 
Delilah group — ” 

“ Three thousand francs, he ! a group?” 

“ Provided 3'OU will sit as Delilah.” 

“ He will not be present, I hope,” she said, ‘‘ other- 
wise the group would cost his whole fortune, for Deli- 
lah, I think, must be somewhat disrobed.” 

Just as men like Crevel affect a posture, so women 
assume a studied pose, an attitude of victor^" when they 
feel they are irresistibly admired. There are some who 
pass whole evenings in society in looking at the lace of 
their chemisettes or straightening the sleeves of their 
dresses, or showing the beaut}" of their eyes by looking 
at the cornices. Madame Marneffe did not proclaim 
her triumphs openly like other women. She turned 


300 


Cousin Bette. 


quickly towards the tea-table to seek Bette ; and the 
undulation of her robe as she did so fascinated Stein- 
bock with the same spell by which she bad first con- 
quered Hulot. 

“ Your vengeance is complete,” whispered Valerie to 
Bette, “ Hortense will weep all the tears in her body 
and curse the day when she took Wenceslas away from 
you.” 

“Until I am Madame la mar^chale I have gained 
nothing,” said Bette; “but they have begun to wish 
it. This morning I went to see Victorin, — I forgot 
to tell you that. He and his wife have taken up the 
baron’s notes to Vauvinet ; they are to sign bonds to- 
morrow for the repayment of seventj’-two thousand 
francs in three years with five per cent interest, se- 
cured by a mortgage on their house. So they, too, will 
be pinched for the next three years, and they can raise 
no more monej’ on their property. Victorin is dread- 
fully gloomy ; he understands his father at last. Creve. 
is so angry at what has been done that he is quite 
likely to refuse to have anything more to do with them.” 

“The baron must be entirely without resources by 
this time, — don’t you think so?” whispered Valerie to 
Bette, smiling at Hulot. 

“I don’t see that he can have anything left ; but he 
gets back his salary in September.” 

“And he has that life insurance; he has lately re- 
newed it. It is high time Marneffe got his promotion. 

I shall attack Hector to-night.” 

“ Cousin,” said Bette, going up to Wenceslas, “ do 
pray go away. You are making 3’ourself ridiculous ; 
you look at Valerie in a compromising way, and her 


Cousin Bette* 


301 


husband is madlj’ jealous. Don’t imitate your father- 
in-law, but go home ; I am certain your wife is expect- 
ing you.” 

“ Madame Marneffe told me to remain till the last to 
settle that little money matter,” said Wenceslas. 

“No,” said Lisbeth; “I’ll give you the ten thou- 
sand francs now ; Marneffe has his eye upon you, and 
it would be very imprudent for you to sta}^ now. To- 
morrow morning, at nine o’clock, you can bring your 
note ; that fool of Marneffe is then at his office, and 
Valerie will be alone. Go up to my rooms when you 
come. — Ah ! ” she added, detecting the look with which 
Steinbock took leave of Valerie, “ I always knew 3’ou 
were a libertine by nature. Valerie may be beautiful, 
but don’t make Hortense unhappy.” 

Nothing irritates married men so much as to find their 
wives between themselves and their desire, no matter 
how ephemeral it may be. 


302 


Couiin Bette, 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE FIRST QUARREL OF MARRIED LIFE. 

Wenceslas returned home about one in the morn- 
ing. Hortense had been expecting him since half-past 
nine. From half-past nine to ten she listened to the 
rolling of carriages, thinking to herself that Wenceslas 
had never before been so late when he dined at Florent 
and Chanor’s without her. She sat sewing by the cra- 
dle of her son ; for she had begun to save the wages 
of a workwoman by doing the mending of the famil}^ 
herself. From ten to half-past ten she felt an uneasy 
doubt, and asked herself: “Surely', he went to dine, 
as he told me, with Chanor and Florent? He wore his 
best cravat, and the handsome pin ; he took as much 
time to dress as a woman who wants to be better look- 
ing than she is. Ah I what a fool I am ! He loves me. 
Here he is ! ” Alas ! the carriage-wheels rolled by, in- 
stead of stopping. 

From eleven o’clock till midnight Hortense was a 
prey to unutterable fears, increased by the dead silence 
of the neighborhood. “ If he comes back on foot,” she 
thought, “ some harm maj’ happen to him. He might 
slip on the pavement, — artists are so absent-minded. 
Suppose a robber should stop him ! This is the first 
time that he has left me alone for six whole hours ! 


Cousin Bette, 303 

Why should I torment myself ? I know he will never 
love any one but me.” 

Men ought to be faithful to the women who love 
them, were it only because of the miracles true love 
works in that sublime region called the spiritual world. 
A loving woman is, in relation to the man she loves, 
like a somnambulist on whom a magnetizer should be- 
stow the melancholy power of being conscious as woman 
of what she perceived in trance. Passion brings the 
nervous forces of woman to that ecstatic state in which 
presentiment is equivalent to the vision of seers. A 
woman feels she is betrayed ; she listens to no self- 
reasoning ; she doubts because she loves, and she nega- 
tives the cry of her pythoness power. That paroxysm 
of love should be held in reverence. Admiration for 
its divine phenomena will ever be a barrier between all 
noble natures and infidelity. How is it possible not to 
revere the beautiful and spiritual being whose soul has 
reached the capacity for such manifestations ? 

By one o’clock in the morning Hortense was in such 
a state of anguish that she rushed to the door on hear- 
ing Wenceslas’s well-known ring, took him in her arms 
and pressed him, as a mother might, to her bosom. 

“At last!” she said, recovering the use of speech. 
“ My dear love, in future I must go where you go ; for 
I can never again bear the torture of such waiting. I 
fancied you falling on the pavement, your head wound- 
ed ! killed by robbers ! — No, if it were to happen 
again I should go mad. And j'ou were amusing your- 
self without me? Ah, rogue ! ” 

“ How could I help it, my dear little angel? Bixiou 
was there with a series of new absurdities, and Leon 


304 


Cousin Bette, 


de Lora, whose wit is never to be quenched, and 
Claude Vignon, to whom I owe the only consoling 
criticism on the Montcornet monument. There was 
also — ” 

“ Were there no women? ” asked Hortense, eagerly. 

“ The worth}’ Madame Florent — ” 

“ Then 5’ou dined at their house? You told me you 
were going to the Rocher de Cancale.” 

“ Yes, at their house ; I made a mistake.” 

“ Did you drive home? ” 

“ No.” 

“You walked all the way from the rue des Tour- 
nelles ? ” 

“ I went with Stidmann and Bixiou round by 
the boulevards as far as the Madeleine ; we were 
talking — ” 

“It couldn’t have rained on the boulevards, or the 
place de la Concorde and the rue de Bourgogne,” re- 
marked Hortense, looking at the polish of her husband’s 
boots. 

It had certainl}’ been raining ; yet Wenceslas had not 
muddied his boots. 

“ See, here are five thousand francs which Chanor 
has generously lent me,” said Wenceslas, hoping to 
cut short these judicial inquiries. 

He had folded the ten thousand francs into two 
packets of five thousand each, — one for Hortense, the 
other for himself, to pay debts of which she was igno- 
rant ; he owed them to his rough-hewer and workmen. 

“ That relieves you from anxiety, dear,” he said, 
kissing her. “To-morrow I shall set to work, — yes, 
to-morrow you will see me off to the atelier at eight 


Cousin Bette. 


£05 


o’clock. I’ll go to be^ at once, with your permission, 
darling, so as to get up early.” 

The doubt which had vaguely entered his wife’s mind 
disappeared ; she was a thousand leagues from suspect- 
ing the truth. Madame Marneffe ! the idea never en- 
tered her mind. She was afraid of the society of loose 
women for her husband ; and the names of Bixiou and 
Leon de Lora, notorious for their dissipated lives, alarmed 
her. The next day, seeing Wenceslas depart for his 
atelier at nine o’clock she was completely reassured. 
“There he is at work,” she thought to herself, as she 
proceeded to dress the baby. “ Ah ! I see he is going 
to take hold of his art ! Well, if we can’t have the glory 
of Michael Angelo, at least he shall win that of Cel- 
lini.” Buo3’ed up b}’ her own hopes Hortense believed in 
a prosperous future, and she was babbling to her son, 
aged twent}^ months, in that onomato-poetic language 
which makes a baby smile, when the cook, unaware that 
Steinbock had gone out, announced Stidmann. 

“Pardon me, madame,” said the artist. “Wh}"! 
has Wenceslas gone already’?” 

“ To his atelier.” 

“ I came to arrange with him about our new work.” 

“ I will send for him,” said Hortense, signing to 
Stidmann to be seated. 

The young wife, thanking heaven for the opportunity’, 
was anxious to detain Stidmann and hear something 
about the events of the night before. Stidmann bowed 
as he thanked her. She rang the bell, and the cook re- 
ceived the order to go to the atelier for her master. 

“ I hope you were amused last night,” said Hortense, 
“ Wenceslas did not get home till one in the morning.” 

20 


306 


Cousin Bette. 


“ Amused? — well, not exactly,” said the artist, who 
had intended the night before to capture Madame Mar- 
neffe on his own account. “ One can’t amuse one’s self 
in society unless one has some personal interests to 
gratify. That httle Madame Marneffe is very witty, 
but she is coquettish and — ” 

“ What did Wenceslas think of her? ” asked Hortense, 
endeavoring to be calm, “ he did not tell me.” 

“ I will tell you only one thing,” answered Stidmann, 
she is a dangerous woijian.” 

Hortense turned as pale as a woman just after child- 
birth. “Then it was — with Madame Marneife — and 
not with — Chanor — that you and Wenceslas dined 
yesterday,” she said; “and he — ” 

Stidmann, without understanding what harm he had 
done, guessed that he had made some blunder. The 
countess did not finish her speech, and suddenly fainted 
away. The artist rang the bell and the chambermaid 
came. After the woman had carried Hortense into her 
bedchamber a violent nervous attack came on. Stid- 
mann, like others whose involuntary indiscretion knocks 
down a husband’s edifice of lies, could hardly believe 
that his speech should have caused such a result. He 
thought it probable that the countess was in a situation 
where a slight word of contradiction became dangerous. 
The cook entered at this moment and stated that mon- 
sieur was not at the atelier. The countess heard the 
words and a fresh attack came on. 

“Go and get Madame’s mother,” said Louise, the 
chambermaid, to the cook ; “ run ! ” 

“ If I knew where to find Wenceslas, I would go for 
him,” said Stidmann, in despair. 


Cousin Bette. 


307 


“ He is with that woman ! ” cried poor Hortense. 
“ He was dressed for something else than his atelier.” 

Stidmann went instantly to Madame Marneffe’s house, 
understanding at once this second-sight of the passions. 
At the moment of his arrival Valerie was posing as 
Delilah. Too shrewd to ask for Madame Marneffe, 
Stidmann passed the porter’s lodge and ran quickly 
up to the second floor, arguing with himself, “If I 
ask for her, I shall be told she is not in ; if I ask 
for Steinbock, they’ll laugh in my face, — I’ll force 
an entrance.” 

He rang the bell ; Eeine answered it. 

“ Tell Monsieur le Comte Steinbock to come at once ; 
his wife is ill.” 

Reine, quite as shrewd as Stidmann, looked at him 
with a stupid air. 

“ But, monsieur, I don’t exactly’ know — what you — ” 

“I tell you that my friend Steinbock is here, — his 
wife is ill, and the matter is serious enough for you to 
disturb your mistress.” 

Stidmann left the house. He ’s there ! ” he said 
to himself. He waited a few moments at the corner 
of the rue Vaniieau till he saw Wenceslas come out, 
and then signed to him to move quickl3\ After relat- 
ing what had happened, Stidmann scolded Steinbock 
for concealing the truth about the dinner of the night 
before. 

“It is a terrible mishap,” answered Wenceslas, “but 
I forgive you. I totally forgot you had promised to 
meet me this morning, and I made a great mistake in 
not telling you to say we dined at Florent’s. But I 
could n't help it ; that Valerie has put me beside my- 


808 


Cousin Bette* 


self — but ah, my dear fellow, she is worth more than 
fame ; a man could face everything for her sake. Ad- 
vise me. What am I to tell Hortense ? how am I to 
excuse myself?” 

“ Advise you ! ” replied Stidmann, “ I know nothing 
about it. Your wife loves you, doesn’t she? Well, 
she will believe whatever you say. Tell her that you 
came for me when I went for 3'ou, and we crossed each 
other ; 3’ou can at least get out of this morning’s affair. 
Adieu ! ” 

Lisbeth, hearing what had happened from Reine, 
overtook Steinbock at the corner of the rue Hillerin- 
Bertin ; she was afraid of his Polish candor. Anxious 
not to be compromised, she said a few words to Wen- 
ceslas which made him stop and kiss her in the open 
street. Perhaps she threw him a plank b}' which to 
cross the conjugal strait. 

When Hortense saw her mother, who arrived in 
haste, she burst into tears ; and the nervous crisis for- 
tunately took another turn. 

“ Betrayed! m}^ dear mamma, betrayed!” she said. 
“ Wenceslas, after giving me his word of honor that he 
would not visit Madame Marneffe, dined there yester- 
day, and only got back at one in the morning. The 
night before we had had, not a quarrel, but an expla- 
nation. I said such tender things to him, — I told him 
that I was jealous of his love, that unfaithfulness would 
kill me. I said I was easily hurt, but he must forgive 
my weaknesses because they all came from m3' love for 
him ; that I had as much of m3' father’s blood as of 
3'ours in m3' veins, and if betra3'ed I might be maddened 
and commit mad deeds ; I might avenge myself and 


Cousin Bette, 


809 


dishonor us all — him, our child, m3'self ; that I might even 
kill him, and m3'self afterwards. And 3’et he went to her ! 
he is there now ! That woman is resolved to destroy 
us all. ’ Yesterda3' Victorin and Celestine signed bonds 
to take up m3' father’s notes for sixt3’ thousand francs 
which he has wasted on that w'anton. Yes, mamma, 
the creditors were about to put papa in prison. That 
horrible woman is not satisfied with m3’ father’s honor 
and your tears, she must also deprive me of Wences- 
las ! — I will go to her ; I will stab her ! ” 

Madame Hulot, horrorstricken b3’ the news which 
Hortense in her fury betrayed, controlled her anguish 
by an heroic effort, such as noble mothers are alone able 
to make. She laid her daughter’s head upon her breast, 
and covered it with kisses. 

“Wait till you see Wenceslas, my child, and all will 
be explained. The evil cannot be as great as 3"ou 
think. I have m3’self been betra3’ed, Hortense. You 
think me beautiful, I am virtuous, and 3’et for the last 
twenty-four 3’ears I have been abandoned for such wo- 
men as Jenn3" Cadine, Josepha, Madame Marneflfe, — 
did you know that ? ” 

“You, mamma, 3’ou ! — for twent3’-four 3’ears 3’ou 
have suffered as — ” 

She stopped before the ideas in her own mind. 

“Imitate your mother, dear child; do as she has 
done. Be gentle and kind, and 3’our conscience will be 
at peace. On his dying bed a man will sa3’ ‘ My wife 
caused me no sorrow.’ God who hears those w’ords 
will place them to our account. If I had yielded to 
anger as 3’ou are doing now, do 3’ou know what would 
have happened? Your father would have been embit- 


310 


Cousin Bette, 


tered ; he might have abandoned his home altogether ; 
our ruin, which has come now, would have come ten 
years earlier; we should have shown to the world the 
shameful spectacle of a husband and wife living apart, 
a deplorable scandal, the destruction of the family ; 
neither you nor your brother could have married. I 
sacrificed myself — and so courageously that if it had 
not been for your father’s last liaison, the world would 
have thought me a happy wife. My deceit, my brave 
deceit, has protected Hector all his life ; his reputation 
is uninjured, — only, I fear this present passion, the mad- 
ness of an old man, will carry him too far ; j^es, it will 
tear away the screen I have so long held between our 
home and the world. Ah! for twenty-four years I have 
held it up ! behind it I wept alone, with no mother, no 
friend, no help except religion ; but I have maintained 
the family honor all those 3^ears.” 

Hortense listened to her mother with fixed eyes. The 
calm, resigned voice of this supreme sorrow silenced 
the angry voice of the 3’ounger woman’s first wound ; 
tears came, and came in torrents. In a rush of filial 
devotion, overcome b}’^ the sublimity of her mother’s life, 
she fell on her knees before her, and caught the hem of 
her dress and kissed it, as pious Catholics kiss the 
sacred relics of a martyr. 

“Rise, my Hortense,” said the baroness; “such 
feeling shown by my daughter blots out many a cruel 
memory ! Come to my heart, which holds thy sorrows 
only. The grief of my little girl, whose joy was my 
sole joy, has broken the sepulchral seal which nothing 
less could take from my lips. Yes, I meant to carry 
my sorrows to the grave — a winding-sheet of grief! 


Cousin Bette. 


811 


To calm thine anger, I have spoken ■ — God will pardon 
me ! Rather than see thy life like my life, what would 
I not do? Men, the world, chance, nature, God — all, 
all sell us love at the price of cruel torture. Ten happy 
years have cost me twenty-four of despair and bitter- 
ness and endless suffering.” 

“You had ten years, my own mamma, and I but 
three ! ” said the loving egoist. 

“All is not lost, my little one; wait till 3’ou see 
Wenceslas.” 

“ Mother,” she said, “ he lied to me ; he has wilfully 
deceived me. He said, ‘ I will not go.' He said it be- 
fore the cradle of his child ; and he went ! ” 

“ M}^ darling, men for their own pleasure commit the 
basest actions, villanies, crimes, — it seems to be in 
their nature. We women are vowed to self-sacrifice. 
I thought my sorrows were coming to an end : alas ! 
they begin anew ; I little thought I should suffer again 
in the sufferings of m3’ daughter. Courage and silence ! 
M3’ Hortense, swear to speak to none but me of 3’our 
trials ; to let no others suspect them. My child, show 
the pride of 3’Our mother.” 

Hortense shuddered, for at that moment she heard 
her husband’s step. 

“ It seems that Stidmann came here for me just after 
I had gone to see him,” said Wenceslas as he entered 
the room. 

“ Indeed ! ” cried Hortense, with the savage irony of 
an offended woman who uses speech as a dagger. 

“ Yes, I have just met him,” answered Wenceslas, 
acting surprise. 

“ What of yesterday ? ” said Hortense. 


312 


Cousin Bette, 


“My dear love, I deceived you; but your mother 
shall judge between us.” 

His frankness softened his wife’s heart. All noble 
women prefer truth to falsehood. The}" cannot bear to 
see their idols disgrace themselves ; they choose to be 
proud of the masters they accept. 

“ Hear me, my dear mother,” said Wenceslas ; “I 
love my good and gentle Hortense so truly that I have 
hidden the extent of our embarrassments from her. 
How could I do otherwise? She is still nursing her 
child, and more anxiety would have injured her. You 
know what risks a woman runs at such times. Her 
beauty, her freshness, even her health are in danger. 
Did I do wrong? she thought we owed five thousand 
francs, when in fact I owe twice as much. Yesterday 
I was in the depths of despair. No one is ever willing 
to lend money to an artist ; persons distrust us, they 
distrust our talents and our caprices. I asked in vain ; 
Lisbeth alone offered us her savings.” 

“ Poor woman ! ” said Hortense. 

“ Poor Bette ! ” echoed her mother. 

“But Lisbeth’s two thousand francs — what were 
they ? a drop in the bucket. Then our cousin spoke 
(as you know, Hortense), of Madame Marneffe, who, 
she thought — out of pride, owing all she has to the 
baron — would lend us the money without interest. 
Hortense wished to pawn her diamonds. They might 
have brought a few thousand francs, but we needed ten 
thousand. Here were the ten thousand offered to us 
for a year without interest. I said to myself : Hortense 
need never know ; I will go myself and get them. The 
woman asked my father-in-law to invite me to dinner 


Cousin Bette. 


313 


yesterdaj", and let me know through Lisbeth that I 
should then receive the money. How can Hortense, at 
twenty-four years old, fresh and pure and virtuous — 
she who is my glory and my happiness, whom I have 
never quitted for a da}" since our marriage — how can 
she imagine that I prefer — w-hat? a sallow, faded, 
washed-out woman,” he added, using a slang term of 
the studios to make Hortense believe in his contempt 
by one of those extravagant condemnations that gratify 
the female mind. 

“Ah, if your father had reasoned with me thus!” 
exclaimed the baroness. 

Hortense threw herself on her husband’s breast. 

“ Yes, that is what I should have done,” said Ad- 
eline. “ Wenceslas, my friend, 3'our wife has nearl}' 
died of anxiety. She is yours. Alas,” thought the 
mother, sighing deeply, and thinking what all women 
think after the marriage of their daughters, “he can 
make her a martyr or a happ}’ woman. It seems to 
me,” she said aloud, “ that I suffer enough to deserve 
to have my children happy.” 

“ Do not be anxious, dear mamma,” said Wenceslas, 
overjoyed at the fortunate termination of the crisis ; “ in 
two months I shall have earned the money and returned 
it to that horrible woman. What else could I do? ” he' 
added, using that essentiall}’ Polish phrase with natural 
Polish grace. “ There are moments when we are will- 
ing to borrow money of the devil. After all, it is family 
mone}^ And the invitation once given, I should never 
have got the money had I replied to it rudely.” 

“Oh, mamma, what harm papa has done us ! ” cried 
Hortense. 


314 


Cousin Bette. 


The baroness put a finger on her lip, and Hoitense 
regretted the words, the first blame she had ever 
allowed herself to utter against a father so heroically 
defended by sublime silence. 

“ Good-by, my dear children,” said Madame Hulot. 
“It is all sunshine now. Never be angry with each 
other again.” 

When, after taking the baroness to the door, Wen- 
ceslas and his wife returned to their own room, Hor- 
tense said to her husband, “ Tell me all about last 
evening.” And she watched his face during the recital, 
which she interrupted now and then by questions 
which spring naturally to a wife’s lips in such a case. 
The account she received made her thoughtful ; she per- 
ceived clearly enough the diabolical enjoyments artists 
must find in such vicious society. 

“Be frank, dear Wenceslas — Stidmann, Claude 
Vignon, and Vernisset were present, who else? Did 
3’ou enjo}" it?” 

“I? I thought of nothing but that ten thousand 
francs ; I said to mj’self, The^^ will relieve m^’ Hortense 
of all anxiety’.” 

This questioning was becoming intolerably annoying 
to the Pole, and he seized a moment’s respite to saj^ to 
Hortense, “ What would 3 ^ou have done, my darling, 
had I been guilty ? ” 

“ I? ” she said. “ I should have taken Stidmann — 
without loving him, be it understood.” 

“Hortense!” cried Steinbock, springing up with an 
almost theatrical movement, “ you would never have 
had time to do it, — I should have killed you I ” 

Hortense threw herself on her husband’s breast. 


Cousin Bette. 


315 


clasped him to suffocation in her arms, and covered 
him with kisses, crying out : “Ah ! 3’ou love me, Wen- 
ceslas ! I fear nothing now. But no more Marneffe ! 
Don’t plunge again into such mud-holes.” 

“ T swear to you, my Hortense, that I will never go 
back there until I take the money to pay my note.” 

She was cold for a while, like other loving women who 
pretend coldness to gain a profit in the end. Wenceslas, 
weary of the scene, left her alone to sulk as she pleased 
and went off to his atelier to make the rough model for 
Samson aud Delilah, the drawing of which was in his 
pocket. Hortense, regretting her manner and thinking 
Wenceslas displeased, followed him some time later, and 
reached the atelier just as her husband had finished man- 
ipulating the clay, with that fury which takes possession 
of an artist in the grasp of fancj^ When he saw his 
wife he flung a wet cloth over the roughly modelled fig- 
ures and took Hortense in his arms, exclaiming : — 

“We are not angiy with each other, are we, my 
Ninette ? ” 

Hortense had seen the group and the cloth thrown 
hastily over it, though she said nothing; but before 
leaving the atelier she turned round, lifted the wet 
rag, looked at the sketch, and said : — 

“ What is that? ” 

“ An idea that has come into my head.” 

“ Why did you hide it from me?” 

“ I did not want 3’Ou to see it till finished.” 

“ That woman is very pretty ! ” said Hortense. 

And again suspicion grew in her mind, as in the 
Indies those rank vegetations spring up, tall and 
tufted, in a single night. 


316 


Cousin Bette, 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

THE FIVE FATHERS OF THE MARNEFFE CHURCH. 

By the end of three weeks Madame Marneffe was 
deeply" incensed against Hortense. Women of her kind 
have their own form of self-love ; thej’ choose that others 
shall obey their devil’s-spur ; they never forgive a virtue 
which either does not fear their power or wrestles with it. 
Wenceslas had not paid a single visit in the rue Van- 
neau, — not even the one which courtesy demanded to 
thank a woman for posing as Delilah. Each time that 
Lisbeth had gone to the Steinbocks’ she found no one 
at home ; monsieur and madame spent their whole time 
at the atelier. Lisbeth, pursuing the turtle-doves to 
their nest at Gros-Caillou, saw W enceslas hard at work 
and ascertained from the cook that madame never 
left him. Wenceslas had yielded to the despotism of 
love. Valerie now shared Lisbeth’s hatred of Hortense 
on her own account. Women are as desirous of a lover 
whom other women try to hold as men are of the women 
whom other men desire. The reflections which we make 
about Madame Marneffe apply equally to men of gal- 
lantry, who are, in a sense, male courtesans.' Valerie’s 
fancy for Wenceslas became rabid ; she was determined 
in the first place to get her group, and she was thinking 
of going to see him at his atelier when an event hap- 


Cousin Bette. 


317 


pened which may be called, in the case of such women, 
fructus belli. Valerie announced this absolutely per- 
sonal fact as she was breakfasting with Lisbeth and 
Monsieur Marneffe. 

“Marneffe, did you know j’ou were about to be a 
father for the second time?” 

“ No ! really? Ah, let me kiss j^ou — ” 

He rose and made the circuit of the table ; his wife 
held her head at him so that the kiss fell on her hair. 

“ That will make me head of my department and of- 
ficer of the Legion of honor ! Ha, ha, my little girl ! 
But I don’t want Stanislas to be injured, poor little 
thing.” 

“Poor little thing indeed!” cried Lisbeth. “It is 
six months since 3*011 have seen him ; the}* think I ’m 
his mother at school, for I am the onlj" one of the family 
who ever inquires for him.” 

“ A child that costs a hundred francs a month I ” ex- 
claimed Valerie. “Besides, he is reall}" yours, Marneffe, 
and 3*ou ought to pa3* his schooling out of your salar}". 
The new-comer, instead of being a drain upon us, will 
keep us rich.” 

“ Valerie,” said Marneffe, imitating Crevel’s attitude, 
“ I hope Monsieur le baron Hulot will take care of 
his son, and not put the cost of the child on a poor 
clerk ; I shall be very exacting with him on that point. 
Therefore, be ready with 3*our proofs, madame. Try 
to get letters in which he speaks of his happiness ; the 
fact is, he hangs fire too long about m3* appointment.” 

Marneffe departed to the ministr3*, where the inesti- 
mable friendship of his director allowed him to go at 
the late hour of eleven ; he had little or nothing to do 


318 


Cousin Bette. 


when there, by reason of his notorious incapacity and 
his aversion to work. 

Left alone, Lisbeth and Valerie looked at each other 
for a moment like a pair of witches, and then they both 
burst into fits of laughter. 

“But, Valerie, tell me, is it true,’* said Bette, “or 
are you playing a farce?” 

“ It is a physical fact ! ” answered Valerie. “ Hortense 
aggravates me. Last night I bethought me of firing 
the infant like a bomb into the Steinbock household.” 

Valerie returned to her bedroom, followed by Lisbeth, 
to whom she showed the following letter. 

Wenceslas, my friend, I still believe in your love, though 
I have not seen you for nearly a month. Do you despise me ? 
Delilah refuses to believe it. Can it be that you are under 
the tyranny of the woman whom you told me you had ceased 
to love ? Wenceslas, you are too great an artist to let yourself 
be ruled in that way. Such a home is the grave of glory. 
Ask yourself if you still resemble the Wenceslas of the rue 
du Doyenne. You failed on my father's monument; but the 
lover is superior to the artist, — you have triumphed with the 
daughter. My adored Wenceslas, you are a father. If you 
do not come to see me in the state in which I find myself, 
you will sink in the estimation of your friends. But I know 
myself; I know that I love you madly, and that I at least 
can never curse you. May I call myself forever 

Thy Valerie? 

“ What do you say to sending that letter to the 
atelier at a time when our dear Hortense is sure to 
be there alone?” asked Valerie. “ Stidmann told me 
last night that Wenceslas was to meet him at eleven 
o’clock at Chanor’s ; so that minx of a Hortense will be 
alone.” 


Cousin Bette. 


319 


“If you play such a trick as that,” said Bette, “ I 
can’t continue ostensibly your friend ; I shall have to 
leave this house, and be supposed to neither see you nor 
speak to you.” 

“ Of course,” said Valerie, “ but — ” 

“Well, never mind,” interrupted Bette. “We shall 
see each other when I marry the marshal. They are 
all eager for the match ; the baron is the onl}’^ one 
who knows nothing about it ; you must make him agree 
to it.” 

“ But,” answered Valerie, “ perhaps my own position 
with the baron will be rather ticklish now.” 

“ Madame Olivier is the only person you can trust 
to get that letter to Hortense ; you must send it to the 
rue Saint-Dominique before she goes to the atelier.” 

“ Oh, the little fool will be sure to be at home,” 
answered Madame Marneffe, ringing for Reine to fetch 
Madame Olivier. 

Ten minutes after the fatal letter had been despatched, 
the baron arrived. Madame Marnelfe sprang with a 
kittenish action into his arms. 

“Hector, you are a father,” she whispered in his 
ear. 

Perceiving a certain amazement which the baron was 
not quick enough to conceal, she assumed a chilling air 
which tortured that official. She made him drag the 
proofs from her, one by one. As soon as conviction, 
prompted by vanity, had entered the old man’s mind, 
she talked to him of Marneffe’s fury. 

“My dear old veteran,” she said, “ 3*ou positive!}’ 
must make your responsible editor — ours if you like — 
head of his department and officer of the Legion of 


320 


Cousin Bette. 


honor ; for you have ruined the man ; he adores his 
boy, Stanislas. I detest the little monster, for he is so 
like him ! If you prefer it you might settle twelve hun- 
dred francs a year on Stanislas, — the capital, of course ; 
the income to be paid to me.” 

“ If I do that I prefer to put the capital in my own 
son’s name, and not in that of the ‘ little monster,’ as 
you call him,” said Hulot. 

This imprudent speech, in which the words “my 
son ” set the stream a-flowing, was enlarged at the end 
of an hour’s talk into a formal promise to settle twelve 
hundred francs a 3*ear on the coming infant. The 
promise once made, it became in Valerie’s hands like a 
drum in possession of a small boy, an instrument on 
which she pla3’ed for the next twenty" days. 

At the ver}’ moment when Baron Hulot, happ^^ as 
the husband of a 3’ear’s standing anxious for an heir, 
was leaving the rue Vanneau, Madame Olivier had man- 
aged to make Hortense drag out of her Valerie’s let- 
ter to Steinbock, which she said she was charged to put 
into no hands but his. The 3’oung wife bought the letter 
for twent3* francs. Suicides pa3’ for their opium, their 
pistols, their charcoal. Hortense read the letter ; then 
she re-read it. She saw only the white paper barred with 
black lines ; nothing existed in nature but that paper. 
All was chaos about her. The blaze of the conflagra- 
tion which was burning up her happiness illuminated 
the letter in the deep darkness that surrounded her. 
The shouts of her little Wenceslas, who was playing 
near, came to her ear as if from the depths of a valle3" 
far below her. Insulted in her 3’outh, her beaut3’, her 
pure and devoted love, it was not a dagger-thrust that 


Cousin Bette, 


321 


wounded her, — it was death itself. The shock given 
a few weeks earlier had been purel}’ nervous; the body 
writhed in the agonies of jealousy ; but conviction now 
entered the soul, and the bod}’ became non-existent. 
Hortense remained full}’’ ten minutes in this paralyzed 
condition. The spirit of her mother then appeared to 
her, and a change took place ; she grew cold and calm, 
and recovered her reason. Then she rang the bell. 

“Let Louise help you, my dear,” she said to the cook. 
“ Pack up everything that is mine in this house as soon 
as possible, and all that belongs to my son. I give you 
two hours to do it in. When all is ready call a coach 
and let me know. Make no remarks. I leave this house, 
and Louise will go with me. You will stay with mon- 
sieur ; take good care of him.” 

She entered her bedroom, sat down at her writing- 
table, and wrote the following letter : — 

Monsieur le comte, — The enclosed letter will explain 
the reasons for a resolution which I have taken. 

When you read these lines I shall have left your house, to 
live with my mother; and I shall have taken my child with 
me. 

Do not expect me to return. Should you attribute my 
action to the hasty passion of youth or the anger of offended 
love, you will greatly deceive yourself. 

I have thought deeply, during the last two weeks, on life, 
on love, on our union, and our mutual duties. I know to 
its full extent my mother’s self-devotion ; she has told me 
her trials. She has been hourly heroic for twenty-four years ; 
but I have not the strength to imitate her, — not that I have 
loved you less than she has loved my father, but for other 
reasons which are derived from my own nature. Our home 
would become a hell ; I might lose my self-command to the 

21 


322 


Cousin Bette. 


point of dishonoring you, myself, my child. I do not wish 
to be a Madame Marneffe ; but in such a career a woman of 
my nature might not be able to stop short. I am, unhappily 
for me, a Hulot rather than a Fischer. 

Alone, and out of sight of your immoralities, I can answer 
for myself; above all when occupied, as I shall be, with the 
care of my child beside my strong and noble mother, whose 
life must react on the tumultuous action of my heart. There 
I can be a good mother ; there I can bring up our son ; there 
I can live. Were I to remain with you, the wife would kill 
the mother, and our incessant quarrels would embitter my 
nature. 

I can accept death at a blow ; I wdll not be a dying woman 
for twenty-four years, like my mother. Ah! monsieur, you 
have begun earlier than my father that career of licentious- 
ness, of waste, and dissipation which degrades the head of 
a family, diminishes filial respect, and leads at last to shame 
and to despair. 

I am not implacable. It does not become such feeble beings, 
living in the sight of God, to be unforgiving. If you win fame 
and fortune by faithful labor, if you renounce the company 
of wantons and the path of shame and all uncleanness, you 
may recover a wife who is worthy of you. 

I believe you are too truly a gentleman to have recourse 
to law. You will respect my wishes. Monsieur le comte, by 
leaving me with my mother. I request, above all, that you 
will never come to see me. I have left you all the money 
which you borrowed from that woman. Adieu. 

Hortense Hulot. 

The letter was written in anguish ; Hortense gave 
wa}^ to tears, to the strangling cries of passion. She 
laid down the pen and took it up again and yet again, 
endeavoring to say simply what love usually declaims 
passionately in such parting letters. Her heart exhaled 


Cousin Bette. 


323 


itself in cries and moans and tears ; but reason dictated 
the words. 

When Louise told her mistress that all was ready 
Hortense rose and walked slowly through the garden, 
the salon, the bedroom, looking at all things for the 
last time. She gave earnest directions to the cook to 
look after her master’s comfort, promising to reward 
her well if she were faithful. Then she got into the 
coach with a breaking heart, weeping (to the great dis- 
tress of her maid), and kissing the little Wenceslas with 
a frantic ardor which betrayed how much love was still 
given to the father. 

Adeline had alread}" heard from Lisbeth that the 
baron was much to blame for the wrong-doing of 
his son-in-law. She was not surprised at the arrival 
of her daughter ; she approved of her course, and con- 
sented to keep her. Recognizing at last that gentle- 
ness and self-devotion had never restrained her Hec- 
tor, for whom her affection was beginning to diminish, 
she now thought her daughter wise in taking other meas- 
ures. Within a few weeks the poor mother had re- 
ceived two fresh wounds, whose tortures almost sur- 
passed those she had already endured. The baron had 
thrown Victorin and his wife into difficulties ; and now, 
according to Lisbeth, he was the cause of his son-in- 
law’s depravity. The honor of the father, so long main- 
tained by the unwise sacnfices of the mother, was now 
abased. The young Hulots, while not regretting their 
money, were distrustful of the baron. Their feelings 
were visible enough to grieve Adeline deeply ; she fore- 
saw the breaking-up of the famil3\ 

The baroness gave her daughter the use of the dining- 


324 


Cousin , Bette. 


room, which was fitted up as a bedroom, thanks to the 
marshal’s money ; the vast antechamber then became, 
as in many families, the dining-room. 

When Wenceslas reached home and read the two let- 
ters, he was seized bj^ a feeling of joj^mingled with sad- 
ness. Living on parole, as it were, to his wife, he had 
inwardly rebelled against this new form of imprison- 
ment a la Lisbeth. Surfeited with love for three years, 
he too had reflected during the last two weeks, and he 
found the famil}" burden too heav}’ to bear. Stidmann 
had just gratified his vanity b}* congratulating him on 
the love he had inspired in Valerie ; for Stidmann, with 
a hidden motive, flattered the husband, hoping to console 
the wife. Wenceslas was, in fact, overjoyed to find him- 
self free to return to Madame Marneffe ; and yet as he 
recalled the pure, unalloyed happiness he had enjoyed 
for three years, and the perfections of his wife, her 
wisdom, her innocent and artless love, he keenly re- 
gretted her. He longed to rush to her mother’s house 
and ask her pardon ; but instead of that he did just Tvhat 
Crevel and Hulot had done before him ; he went to see 
Madame Marneffe, carr3’ing with him his wife’s letter to 
show her the catastrophe of which she was the cause, and 
to recoup, as it were, his misfortune by the smiles of 
his mistress. He found Crevel already there. The mayor, 
puffed up with self-complacency, was walking about the 
room like a man in the throes of some tumultuous feeling. 
He struck an attitude as if about to speak and dared 
not do so. His countenance shone ; he drummed with 
his fingers on the window pane ; he gazed at Valerie 
with touching tenderness. Happilj" for him Lisbeth 
made her appearance. 


Cousin Bette, 


325 


“Cousin,” he said in her ear, “do you know the 
news, — I am a father ! I fear I love my poor Celestine 
a little less. Ah, what it is to have a child by a woman 
you adore ! — to unite the paternity of the heart with the 
paternity of the blood. Cousin, say to Valerie for me 
that I shall toil for that child ; I will make him rich. 
She told me she thought, from certain indications, that 
it would be a boy. If it is a boy, I am determined that 
he shall be called Crevel ; I shall consult m3" notar}".” 

“I know how much she loves 3’ou,” said Lisbeth, 
“ but for the sake of 3"Our future and hers control your- 
self, — don’t rub 3’our hands in that way.” 

While this aside was going on Valerie had got back 
her letter from Wenceslas and was whispering something 
in his ear which soon put an end to his depression. 

“ Now you are free, dear friend,” she said. “ Great 
artists should never marr}", should the}" ? You exist only 
through fancy and by freedom. Ah, my poet, I will 
love you so well that you shall never regret your wife. 
And yet, if, like most people, you wish to keep up ap- 
pearances I will undertake to make Hortense go back 
to you.” 

“ I wish it were possible,” said Wenceslas. 

“ I am sure it is,” said Valerie, piqued. “ Your poor 
father-in-law is a thorough man of the world who likes, 
out of vanity, to have the appearance of being loved ; he 
wants to make people believe he has a mistress. It is 
by that particular form of vanity that I rule him. The 
baroness is so fond of her Hector (like the Iliad, is n’t 
it ?) that the two old people will soon persuade Hortense 
to be reconciled. But remember, if you don’t want to 
have tempests at home never desert your mistress again 


f 


326 


Cousin Bette. 


for nearly a month, — I should die of another such period 
of neglect. My dearest, when a man is a nobleman he 
owes every consideration to a woman whom he has com- 
promised and brought to the condition I am in ; above 
all when that woman has a reputation to maintain. 
Stay to dinner, my angel, — and remember I must seem 
cold to you — to you, the author of my miserable 
fault ! ” 

Baron Montez was announced ; Valerie rose and ran 
to meet him, whispering in his ear and making the same 
conditions of reserve and coldness that she had just ad- 
dressed to Wenceslas ; for the Brazilian wore a diplo- 
matic countenance appropriate to the great news which 
filled him with jo}", — for he was certain of his paternity. 

Thanks to successful strategy, based on the vanity 
and self-love of man in the condition of lover, Valerie 
sat down to dinner surrounded by four joyful, ani- 
mated, fascinated men, each feeling that she adored 
him alone, while Marneffe called them all, under his 
breath to Lisbeth, including himself in the category, 
“ the five fathers of the church.” 

Baron Hulot seemed, at first, rather thoughtful. On 
leaving his office that morning he had gone to see the 
director in charge of the appointments and promotions 
at the War office, — a general, and an old comrade of 
thirty 3’ears’ standing. To him he spoke of his desire 
to appoint Marneffe in place of Coquet, who had agreed 
to resign. 

“My dear friend,” he said, “I don’t want to ask 
this favor of the Mar^chal unless you and I are first 
agreed about it.” 

“My dear friend,” replied the other, “ allow me to 


f 


Cousin Bette. 


327 


say that for 3*onr own sake 5’ou ought not to press that 
appointment. I have already’ told you what I think of 
it. It jvould create a scandal in 3'our department, 
where too much is already being said about 3’ou and 
Madame Marneffe. All this is between ourselves. I 
don’t wish to touch your tender spot, nor to diso- 
blige you in any way, and 1 ’ll prove it. If 3^ou are 
really determined to ask for Coquet’s place (the man 
will be a loss to the War office where he has been em- 
ploj’ed since 1809), I will go into the countiy for a 
couple of weeks, and leave the field open to you with 
the Marechal, who loves you like his own son. I can 
thus be neutral, neither for nor against 3*011, and I shall 
have done nothing in violation of my conscience as a 
public official.” 

“ Thank 3*011,” said Hulot; “ I will reflect on what 
3*ou have said to me.” 

“ If I make these remarks, my dear friend, it is 
that. I am more concerned for 3*our personal interests 
than for m3^ own feelings. The Marechal, however, 
will decide the matter. We get so much blame on all 
sides that a little more or less scarce I3* signifies ! Under 
the Kestoration, men were appointed for the appoint- 
ment’s sake and no one thought of the public service. 
You and I are old comrades — ” 

“Yes,” replied the baron, “and it was because of 
our old friendship that — ” 

“ Come, come,” said his friend, seeing the anxiety 
on Hulot’s face. “ I will make that journe3*, old com- 
rade. But take care ; you have enemies, — that is to sa3’’, 
persons who want your splendid situation and all its 
perquisites ; and you are moored by only a single an- 


828 


Cousin Bette. 


chor. All ! if 3'ou were a deputy" like me, 3'ou need fear 
nothing. As it is, mind what 3’ou are about.” 

This advice, given in a friendlj" spirit, made a great 
impression upon the councillor of state. 

“But tell me, Roger, is there anything behind all 
this? Be frank with me.” 

The individual named Roger looked at Hulot ; then 
he took his hand and pressed it. 

“We are such old friends that I ma}" venture to give 
3’ou a word of advice. If you want to hold 3’our office 
make your bed so that 3’ou can lie in it. If I were 3*011, 
instead of asking the Marechal to appoint Marneffe to 
Coquet’s place, I should ask him to use his influence to 
retain me on the regular service of the Council of State, 
where I could die in peace ; and then, like the beaver, 
I should abandon m3" directorship at the War office to 
the pursuers.” 

“What can 3*ou mean? the Marechal would not 
forget — ” 

“ Old friend, the Marechal has so ably defended 3*011 
before a council of ministers that the3* have given up 
the idea of getting 3*ou turned out — but it was dis- 
cussed. Therefore, give them no further ground of — 
but I will sa3* no more. Just now 3*011 can make 3’our 
conditions and become peer of France if you like. If 
3*ou wait too long, or if you give them an3* handle 
against you, I will not answer for the consequences — 
Now, do 3*011 wish me to go into the countr3*?” 

“ Wait ; I will see the Marechal myself,” said Hulot, 
“ and I will send my brother to sound him.” 

We may imagine the state of mind in which the baron 
came to dine with Madame Marneffe ; he had almost 


Cousin Bette. 


329 


forgotten that he was to be a father. Roger had done 
an act of true and loyal friendship by thus enlight- 
ening him on his real position. Nevertheless, such was 
Valerie’s power over him that by the middle of dinner 
he had put himself in harmony with his company, and 
became all the gayer because he had anxieties to stifle. 
The unhappy man little knew that on this very evening 
he was to And himself caught between his happiness 
and the danger revealed to him by his friend ; that is, 
he was to be forced to choose between Madame Mar- 
neflb and his own ofl^cial position. 


330 


Cousin Bette, 


CHAPTER XXY. 

SUMMARY OF THE HISTORY OF THE FAVORITES. 

About eleven o’clock, just as the party reached a 
climax of gayet}', the salon being full of people, Valerie 
took Hector to a corner sofa. 

“ My old man,” she said in his ear, “ your daughter 
is so irritated against Wenceslas for coming here that 
she has left him. She has no sense. Ask Wences- 
las to show 3’ou a letter the little fool has written to 
him. This separation of the loving couple, of which I 
am supposed to be the cause, ma}' do me incredible 
harm ; that ’s the way virtuous women attack each 
other. It is scandalous to play the victim for the 
purpose of throwing blame upon a woman whose only 
crime is to make her salon agreeable. If 3'ou love me 
3’ou will get me out of the scrape by reconciling the 
turtle-doves. Besides, I am not at all anxious to re- 
ceive 3’our son-in-law in my house; j^ou brought him 
here, now take him awa3\ If 3’ou have an3" authorit3^ 
in your own family it seems to me you ought to require 
your wife to manage this reconciliation. Tell the good 
old lady from me that if she and her daughter accuse 
me unjustly of interfering with the young people’s hap- 
piness and troubling the peace of a household hy carr3"- 
ing away both father and son, I ’ll merit my reputation, 


Cousin Bette. 


331 


and torment them as much as I choose. Lisbeth act- 
ually talks of leaving me ! She prefers her family to 
me, and I can’t blame her. She says she won’t stay 
here unless the young people come together again. If 
she goes 1 know our expenses will be trebled — ” 

“ Oh, as for that,” said the baron, referring to his 
daughter’s proceeding, “ I shall put that to rights.” 

“ Well,” said Valerie, “ there ’s another thing. About 
Coquet’s place?” 

“That,” said Hulot, looking another way, “is a 
much more difficult matter, not to say an impossible 
one.” 

‘ ‘ Impossible ! my dear Hector ! ” exclaimed Madame 
Marneffe, in a low voice, “don’t 3’ou know it would 
drive my husband to extremities ? I am in his power ; 
he is immoral and self-interested after the fashion of 
most men, but he is also, like all little minds, exces- 
sively vindictive. In the condition in which you have 
put me, I am at his mercy.” 

Hulot made a vehement gesture. 

“He will only leave me in peace on condition that 
he gets that appointment. It is infamous, but it’s 
logical.” 

“ Valerie, do you love me? ” 

“ That question, in the state I am in, is impertinent, 
my dear friend.” 

“Well then, if I so much as attempt to ask the Mare- 
chal to appoint Marneffe I shall lose my own place and 
Marneffe will be dismissed.” 

“ I thought that you and the Prince were the closest 
friends. ” 

“ So we are ; he has proved it ; but, my dearest, there 


332 


Cousin Bette. 


is a power above the Marechal ; for instance, there ’s the 
council of ministers. Perhaps b}" and by, by steering 
carefully, we could manage it ; but we shall have to 
wait till they want some service out of me ; then I can 
give them my sprat for your herring — 

“ If I were to tell that to Marneffe, he would do us 
some ill turn. No, tell him 3’ourself that he must wait, 
I dare not. Ah, I know my fate ; he knows how to 
punish me ! — Don't forget about the twelve hundred 
a-year for the little one." 

Hulot took Marnetfe apart, feeling that his happi- 
ness was seriously in danger ; and he abandoned for the 
first time his usual haughty tone to that individual, so 
alarmed was he by Valerie’s terror. 

‘‘Marneffe, my dear friend,” he said, “ your matter 
was brought up to-day ; but you won’t get the appoint- 
ment as head of your division — not 3’et, we must take 
time — ” 

“ I shall get it, Monsieur le baron,” said Marneffe, 
curtly. 

“ But, my dear fellow — ” 

“ I shall get it. Monsieur le baron,” repeated Mar- 
neffe, glancing coolly first at the baron and then at 
ValMe. “You have put my wife under the necessity 
of keeping well with me, — and I shall hold her to it ; 
for, my dear friend^ she is charming,” he added, with 
horrible irony. ‘‘ I am master here, far more than you 
are master at 3"Our ministry.” 

The baron was seized with one of those spasms of 
mental pain which affect the heart like a throbbing tooth- 
ache ; the tears almost came into his e3^es. During this 
short scene Valerie had whispered in Henri Montez’s ear 


Cousin Bette, 333 

the same threat of Marneffe in order to get rid of him 
for a short time. 

Crevel alone among the faithful four, the possessor 
of that thrifty little house, was exempted from this 
measure ; and his face shone with a beatified air that 
was actually insolent, in spite of the reprimands which 
Valerie gave him frowns and significant grimaces. 
His radiant paternity was proclaimed on every feature. 
As Valerie approached him to whisper a reproachful 
warning he seized her hand and said : — 

“ To-morrow, my duchess, you shall have your little 
mansion ! ” 

“ And the furniture?” she asked, smiling. 

“ I have a thousand shares in the Versailles Railway, 
left bank, bought at one hundred and twent3’-five francs ; 
they are going up to three hundred because of the junc- 
tion of the two roads, — I’m in the secret. Your house 
shall be furnished like the Queen’s palace ! — But 3^ 
promise to be mine only, don’t 3'ou ? ” 

“ Yes, old ma3w! ” she said, smiling ; ‘^but do behave 
yourself properly ; respect the future Madame Crevel.” 

“ M3’ dear cousin,” said Lisbeth, taking the baron’s 
arm, “ I shall go and see Adeline earl3’ to-morrow morn- 
ing; for, you understand, I cannot decently remain 
here. I shall go and keep house for your brother the 
marshal.” 

“ I am going home to-night, myself,” said Hulot. 

“Well then, I ’ll come to breakfast to-morrow,” an- 
swered Lisbeth, smiling. 

She understood how necessary her presence would 
be in the family scene which was to take place on the 
morrow. In the morning she went round by Victorin’s 


834 


Cousin Bette. 


house and told him of the separation of Hortense and 
Wenceslas. 

When the baron reached home, about half-past ten at 
night, Mariette and Louise, who had done a hard da3’’s 
work, were just closing the door of the apartment, so 
that Hulot had no need to ring the bell. Grieving over 
his enforced virtue, he went straight to his wife’s room. 
Through the open door he saw her kneeling before her 
crucifix, lost in pra3’er, in one of those expressive atti- 
tudes which make the fame of painters and sculptors 
when they are fortunate enough to be able to represent 
what they have once seen. Adeline, carried awa3" by 
her emotion, cried aloud, “ M3" God, in merc3- to us, en- 
lighten him ! ’* It was thus that she pra3"ed for her Hec- 
tor. At the sight, so dififerent from the scene he had 
just quitted, and at the words, dictated by the events of 
the day, the baron, much moved, gave vent to a sigh. 
Adeline turned round, her face bathed in tears. She 
fancied her pra3"er was heard, and making one bound, 
she clasped her Hector in her arms with the strength 
of joyful passion. Poor woman ! she had laid aside all 
feminine desires, sorrow had quenched all, even the 
memor3" of them. Nothing remained to her but mother- 
hood, family honor, and the pure affection of a Christian 
wife for a misguided husband, the sacred tenderness 
which survives all else in the hearts of women. 

“Hector,” she said, “at last! have 3’ou comeback 
to us ? God has taken pity upon our famil3" ! ” 

“ Dear Adeline,” said the baron, entering the room 
and seating his wife beside him, “ 3"ou are the saintliest 
human being I have ever known ; it is long since I have 
felt worthy of you.” 


Oousin Bette. 


335 


“ It will be so eas}", dear friend,” she said taking his 
hand and trembling with nervousness, “so easy for you 
to restore order — ” 

She dared not go on, feeling that every word implied 
blame, and she would not lessen the joy which this 
home-coming poured into her heart. 

“I have come on account of Hortense,” answered 
Hulot ; “ she may do us more harm by this hasty step 
than my absurd passion for Valerie has ever done. 
But we will talk it over to-morrow morning. Louise 
says that Hortense is asleep, so I won’t disturb her 
now.” 

“ Yes,” said Madame Hulot, suddenly subdued and 
saddened ; she saw that her husband had returned, less 
for the sake of his family than for some ulterior pur- 
pose connected with Madame Marneffe. “ Leave her 
in peace until to-morrow. Poor child, she is in a de- 
plorable condition, she has wept all day.” 

At nine o’clock the next morning the baron, while 
waiting for his daughter whom he had summoned, was 
walking up and down the vast uninhabited salon, pre- 
paring reasons with which to conquer the most difficult 
obstinacy of all to subdue, that of an offended and im- 
placable young woman, to whom, in her irreproachable 
youth, the shameful compromises of the world are 3'et 
unknown, because she is above its passions and its self- 
interests. 

“ Here I am, papa,” said Hortense, pale with grief, 
and speaking in a trembling voice. 

Hulot sat down, took his daughter by the waist, and 
placed her on his knee. 

“Well, my dear child,” he said, kissing her brow, 


336 


Cousin Bette. 


“ I hear there is trouble in your home, and that 3’ou 
are carrying things with a high hand. That ’s not the 
thing for a girl who has been well brought up. M}' 
Hortense ought not to take such a decisive step as to 
leave her house and desert her husband without con- 
sulting her parents. If you had come in the first in- 
stance to your good and excellent mother, 3^ou would 
not have caused me the pain I now feel. You don’t 
know the world, it is very censorious. It may say that 
your husband has sent you back to 3’our parents. 
Daughters brought up as 3-ou were in their mothers’ 
laps remain children longer than other girls ; the3’ know 
little of life. A fresh and artless passion, such as 3'ours 
for Wenceslas, never, unfortunately, reflects ; it acts on 
impulse ; the heart goes off at a tangent, the head fol- 
lows. You must believe 3’our old father who has come 
to tell you that 3’our conduct is not becoming. I will 
not speak of the deep pain you have caused me ; it 
is bitter, for 3’ou have cast blame on a woman whose 
heart is unknown to you and whose enmit3" may become 
formidable. Alas, my child, you do not see that you, 
so candid, innocent and pure, may be libelled and ca- 
lumniated. And besides, my little darling, 3^ou took 
what was meant as a joke seriousl3’. I can, m3’self, 
assure you of the innocence of your husband. Madame 
Marneffe — ” 

Up to this point the baron, an artist in diplomacy, 
had carefully modulated his remonstrances. He had, 
as we have seen, managed the introduction of that fatal 
name with superior ability, yet when Hortense heard it 
she started like a person wounded to the quick. 

“ Listen to me,” said her father, preventing her from 


Cousin Bette, 


337 


speaking. “That lady treats your husband very coldly. 
Yes, you have been the victim of some hoax ; I can 
prove it to you. Yesterday Wenceslas dined there — ” 

“What! he dined there?” cried the young wife, 
springing to her feet and looking at her father with 
horror in her face. “Yesterday! j after reading my 
letter ! Good God ! wh}” did I not enter a convent 
instead of manning ! — My life is no longer mine, I 
have a child ! ” she added, sobbing. 

Her tears wrung her mother’s heart ; Madame Hulot 
emerged from her bedroom and clasped her daughter in 
her arms, weeping. 

“Tears, tears!” said the baron to himself, impa- 
tientl}", “ and all was going so well! what am I to do 
now with crying women ? ” 

“ My child,” said the baroness, “listen to your father; 
he loves us, he is wise — ” 

“Come, Hortense, m3" dear child, don’t cr3", — it 
makes 3"Ou ugly,” said the baron. “ Now be reason- 
able. Go home quietl}’ ; I promise that Wenceslas 
shall not set foot in the house. I ask 3"ou to make the 
sacrifice — if it is a sacrifice to pardon a mere trifiing 
fault in a husband 3^ou love. I ask it for the sake of 
my white hairs, for 3^our mother’s sake — 3"Ou don’t 
wish to fill our declining 3"ears with bitterness and 
grief? ” 

Hortense threw herself wildly at her father’s feet, with 
so passionate an action that her hair fell loose as she 
stretched out her hands to him with a gesture of despair. 

“ Father, 3’ou ask my life ! ” she said ; “ take it if 3-011 
will ; but at least take it pure and spotless. Don’t ask 
me to die dishonored, criminal ! I am not like m3" 
22 


838 


Cousin Bette. 


mother ; I cannot accept outrage. If I re-enter married 
life I may strangle Wenceslas in a fit of jealousy — or 
worse! Would 3^ou mourn me living? the least that 
could befall me would be madness, — I feel it now at 
my elbow ! Yesterday ! yesterday ! he dined with that 
woman after reading mj' letter ! — Are all men created 
like that? Yes, I give 3^011 my life, but grant -that 
my death be not shameful ! — His fault ! 3"OU call it 
light ! — to have a child by that woman ! — ” 

“A child!” cried Hulot, stepping back two paces. ■ 
“ Come, come, that is certainl3^ a joke ! ” 

At this moment Victorin and Bette entered the room 
and stood amazed at the scene. The daughter was pro- 
strate at the feet of her father. The baroness, silent 
and vacillating between the feelings of a mother and 
those of a wife, was convulsed with weeping. 

“ Lisbeth,” said the baron, seizing the old maid In' 
the hand and pointing to Hortense, “help me. Mv 
poor Hortense has lost her head ; she thinks that 
Wenceslas is beloved by Madame Marneffe when she 
has only given him an order for a statuette — ” 

“Of Delilah!” cried the 3’oung woman, “the only 
thing he has done from inspiration since our marriage. 
He could not work for me or for his son, but he could 
work with ardor for that wanton — Ah, put an end to 
me, my father, at once, for eveiy word 3'^ou say stabs 
me like a dagger.” 

Lisbeth looked at the baroness and Victorin and 
shrugged her shoulders with an expression of pity as 
she made them notice the baron, who stood so that he 
could not see her. 

“Cousin,” said Lisbeth, addressing Hulot, “I did 


CouBin Bette. 


339 


not know what Madame Marneffe was when j’ou asked 
me to go and live in the story above her and manage 
her household ; but in the course of three years a good 
deal may be learned. That woman is a prostitute ! 
one whose depravity can be compared onl 3 ^ to that of 
her infamous and disgusting husband. You are the 
dupe, the golden calf, of those creatures, and you will 
be led you don’t know where before they have done with 
3 'ou. I speak plainly because }’OU are falling into an 
abyss.” 

The baroness and her daughter, hearing these words, 
looked at Lisbeth with e^’es like those of the faithful 
thanking a Madonna for saving their lives. 

“ That horrible woman is resolved to bring trouble into 
3 'our son-in-law’s home, — why, I do not know ; my in- 
tellect is too feeble to understand clearly" these under- 
hand intrigues, wicked, shameful, scandalous as they are. 
Your Madame Marneffe does not love Wenceslas, but 
she wants him at her feet out of revenge. I have just 
told the wretched creature what I think of her. She is 
shameless ; I have left her house ; 1 will not live in 
such a sink of depravity ; I belong to you, to my famil}'. 
I knew that my poor little cousin had left Wenceslas 
and I came straight here. Your Valerie, whom you take 
for a saint, did bring about this separation. Could I 
stay in the house of such a woman? Our dear little 
Hortense,” she went on, touching the baron’s arm sig- 
nificantly, “ may be the victim of a mere wish on the 
part of that woman, who, like others of her kind, will 
sacrifice a whole family to get a jewel. I don’t believe 
Wenceslas is guilty, but I know he is weak, and I can- 
not say that he might not yield to her insidious coquetry. 


340 


Cousin Bette, 


My resolution is taken. The woman is a curse upon your 
life ; she will bring you to beggary. I will no longer ap- 
pear to take part in the ruin of the family ; though in 
truth for three years past it is I alone who have hindered 
it. You are deceived, cousin ; say firmly that j’ou will 
have nothing to do with that appointment of Monsieur 
Marneffe and see what will happen ! They are prepar- 
ing to lash you about it.” 

Lisbeth put her arms round Hortense and kissed her 
passionately. 

“ Dear Hortense, hold firm,” she whispered. 

The baroness embraced her cousin Bette with all the 
enthusiasm of a woman who feels that another has 
avenged her. The whole family stood silently around 
the father, who was quick to feel what that silence de- 
noted. A formidable expression of anger crossed his 
face ; the veins swelled, the eyes were suffused with 
blood, the skin grew mottled. Adeline flung herself 
on her knees before him and took his hands, crying 
out. “ My friend, my friend ! forgive us ! ” 

“ I am odious to you all,” said the baron, giving vent 
to the cry of his conscience. 

We know our secret sins. Wer almost always attri- 
bute to our victims the feelings of hatred which, as we 
suppose, vengeance dictates to them ; and in spite of our 
hypocris}^, confession appears on our faces or in our 
language at moments of unexpected torture ; just as the 
criminal on the rack confesses against his will. 

“ Our children,” he said, trying to cover up the 
inadvertent confession, “ end by becoming our ene- 
mies, — ” 

“ Father,” said Victorin. 


Cousin Bette, 


341 


“ Do you venture to interrupt your father?” said the 
baron, in a thundering voice, looking at his son. 

“Father,” continued Victorin, in a firm, curt tone, 
the tones of a puritan deputy, “listen to me. I know 
too well the respect I owe you ever to fail in paying it ; 
you will certainly always find me a most submissive and 
obedient son.” 

Persons who visit the Chambers habitually will recog- 
nize in this preamble the long-winded parliamentar}" 
phrases with which the speakers soothe opposition 
and gain time. 

“We are far from being your enemies,” continued 
Victorin. “ Monsieur Crevel, my father-in-law, has quar- 
relled with me because I took up your notes to Vauvinet, 
the money for which you gave to Madame Marneffe. 
Oh ! I am not reproaching you,” he added, observing 
the baron’s gesture, “I am only joining my testimony 
to that of m}^ cousin Lisbeth, to show you that if our de- 
votion to 3"ou, my dear father, is blind and limitless our 
pecuniary resources are, unhappily, very limited indeed.” 

“ Money ! ” cried the old man, falling into a chair, 
overcome hy this statement, — “ such words from my 
son ! You will be repaid, sir,” he said, rising. 

He walked toward the door. 

“ Hector ! ” 

The cry made him turn ; his wife beheld his face 
covered with tears, and she fiung her arms about him 
with the vehemence of despair. 

“ Don’t leave us thus — not in anger ! ” she cried ; “ I 
have said nothing to m^ke j^ou angry.” 

At her cry the children fell on their knees before 
their father. 


342 


Cousin Bette. 


“ We all love 3’ou,” said Hortense. 

Lisbeth, motionless as a statue, watched the group 
with a proud smile upon her lips. At this moment 
Marechal Hulot’s voice was heard in the antechamber. 
The whole family understood the importance of secrecj’, 
and the scene changed in a moment. The son and 
daughter rose to their feet, and all present tried to con- 
ceal their emotion. 

Mariette’s voice was heard disputing with some one 
at the door, and she presently entered the salon. 

“Monsieur,” she said to the baron, “the quarter- 
master of a regiment just returned from Algeria sa^^s 
he must speak with you.” 

“ Let him wait.” 

“ Monsieur,” whispered Mariette in her master’s 
ear, “ he told me it was something about Monsieur 
Fischer.” 

The baron started ; he believed the man had brought 
him a sum of mone}’ which he had asked of his uncle 
two months earlier to meet his notes, and he hastily 
went into the antechamber. He saw that the man was 
an Alsatian. 

“ Is this the baron Hulot? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Himself? ” 

“ Himself.” 

The man, who was fumbling in the lining of his kepi 
during the colloqu^^, pulled out a letter which the baron 
eagerly opened and read as follows : — 

My Nephew, so far from being able to send you two hun- 
dred thousand francs, I must tell you that my position is not 
tenable if you do not make energetic efforts to save me. We 


Cousin Bette. 


343 


are saddled "with a public prosecutor who talks a gibberish of 
morality about the duties of government. It is impossible 
to make a civilian hold his tongue. If the War office lets 
the black coats ride over it, I am as good as dead. The 
man who carries this letter is trustworthy; try to get him 
promoted, for he has done us good service. Don’t leave me 
to the crows. 

The letter came like a thunderbolt ; in it the baron 
saw the first sign of those intestinal struggles between 
the militarj’ and civil authorities which are carried on to 
•this day in Algeria ; he felt he must at once devise a 
remedy for the opening wound. He told the man to 
come back on the morrow and dismissed him with hopes 
of promotion ; then he returned to the salon. 

“ Good-morning, and good-by,” he said to his bro- 
ther. “Adieu, my children; adieu, dear Adeline. 
What is to become of j’ou, Lisbeth?” 

“ I am going to keep house for the marshal,” replied 
Bette. “I must fulfil m}^ mission b\" doing you all a 
service in turn.’^ 

“ Don’t leave Valerie till I have seen 3'ou again,” said 
Hulot in her ear. “Adieu, Hortense, my wilful child; 
try to be more sensible. I have important business to 
attend to now, but we will talk of your submission later. 
Think it over, my little puss,” he said, kissing her. 

He was so manifestly troubled as he left the room 
that all present felt the keenest apprehension. 

“ Lisbeth,” said the baroness, “ we must find out 
what the matter is. I have never seen Hector so upset. 
Staj" two or three daj^s longer with that woman ; he tells 
her all, and you might discover what this new trouble 
is. Don’t be anxious ; we will arrange your marriage 


344 


Cousin Bette. 


with the marshal, — in fact it has now become a 
llecessit3^” 

“I shall never forget the courage 3’ou showed this 
morning,” said Hortense, embracing Bette. 

“ You avenged our poor mother,” said Victorin. 

The marshal noted with an inquisitive e^^e the tokens 
of friendship thus bestowed on Bette, who made her way 
back to Valerie and related the whole scene. 

This sketch will enable innocent minds to realize the 
various kinds of havoc which the Madame Marneffes 
of social life bring about in families, and the means by 
which such harpies strike down hapless virtuous women 
apparently so far removed from their own sphere of life. 
But if we transport, in thought, the like troubles to a 
higher stage of society, — to the steps of a throne, — 
and consider what the mistresses of kings have cost, 
we may estimate the obligations of a people to sover- 
eigns who set an example of good morals and the purity 
of family life. 


Cousin Bette. 


345 


CHAPTER XXYL 

A SUMMONS WITH AND WITHOUT COSTS. 

All the ministerial departments in Paris are like 
small cities from which women are banished ; but there 
is as much gossiping and backbiting within their pre- 
cincts as if a female population were present. For the 
last three years the position of Monsieur Marneffe had 
been held up to the light of day in the various offices, 
and the question was universal, “Will he or will he 
not be appointed in Coquet's place?” — just as in the 
Chambers it was formerly’ asked, “Will the budget be 
voted, or will it not be voted ? ” Every step taken in 
Baron Hulot’s division was scrutinized. The shrewd 
director had enlisted on his side the man who would 
be injured by Marneffe’s promotion, — a clever worker 
— telling him that if he would make wa}’ for Mar- 
neffe, who was really dying, he should be his successor 
without fail. On the faith of this promise the emploj'e 
w'orked for the appointment of Marneffe. 

When Hulot, after leaving home, crossed the waiting- 
room at his ministiy, he found it already filled with 
visitors, and in a corner he beheld the pallid face of 
Marneffe, who was the first man called in. 

“What do 3"ou want of me, my dear fellow?” said 
Hnlot, endeavoring to hide his anxiet3\ 

“Monsieur le directeur, I am laughed at in all the 
departments. It appears that Monsieur Roger, the ap- 


846 


CouBin Bette. 


pointing director, has left Paris to-day to travel for his 
health ; he will be away at least a month. Everybody 
knows what waiting a month means. You have deliv- 
ered me over to the ridicule of my enemies. I don’t 
intend, monsieur le baron, to be drummed out in both 
directions — ” 

“ My dear Marneffe, it takes a great deal of patience 
to accomplish a purpose. You can’t be made head of 
3^our office for two months yet, if indeed 3’ou ever are. 
At this moment, when I have to strengthen my own 
position, I cannot ask for a scandalous appointment.” 

“If yon are turned out of office I shall never get 
the place I want,” said Marneffe, coldl}" ; “ therefore 
you must get me appointed at once. I ’ll take neither 
more nor less.” 

“ Am I to sacrifice m3’self to 3"ou? ” asked the baron. 

“ If not, I shall cease to retain a good man3^ of m3" 
present illusions about 3’ou.” 

“ You are far too much of a Marneffe, Monsieur Mar- 
neffe,” said the baron, contemptuousl3’, rising and show- 
ing his subordinate the door. 

“ I have the honor to take leave, monsieur le baron,” 
said Marneffe, humbly. 

‘ ‘ The infamous scoundrel ! ” thought the baron. “ This 
is rather too like a bandit, with his ‘ Money or j'our life.’ ” 

Two hours later, just as the baron had finished in- 
structing Claude Vignon (whom he intended to send to 
the Department of Justice to gather information about 
the civilian judicial officers in the district where Johann 
Fischer was at work), Reine opened the door of the 
director’s office, and gave him a letter, which she said 
required an answer. 


Cousin Bette, 


847 


“ To send Heine ! ” thought the baron, — “ what im- 
prudence ! Valerie is beside herself; she will compro- 
mise us all. She will prevent the appointment of that 
abominable Marneffe.” 

He sent away his private secretary, and read as 
follows ; — 

Ah, my friend ! what a scene I have just gone through ! 
If you have made me happy for the last three years I have 
now paid dearly for it. He came home from his office in a 
state of fury that made me shudder. I knew he was ugly; 
but to-day he was hideous, monstrous. His four remaining 
teeth chattered ; he threatened me with his perpetual com- 
pany if I dared to receive you in my house. My poor old 
dear, alas! our doors will be henceforth closed to you. You 
see my tears, — they fall upon my paper and bathe it. Could 
you but read my heart ! Oh, my Hector! not to see you! — 
to renounce you! — when I have shared a little corner of 
your life, and, as I believe, your heart, — ah, I shall die of 
it! Think of our little Hector! Do not abandon me! And 
yet I would not have you degrade yourself for Marneffe; do 
not yield to his threats. Ah, I love you as I never loved be- 
fore ! I remember all the sacrifices you have made for your 
Valerie. She is not, she never can be, ungrateful. You are, 
and ever shall be, my sole husband. Don’t think again of 
the twelve hundred francs a year I asked of you for our dear 
little Hector, who will be here in a few months ; I am resolved 
to cost you no more. 

If you loved me as I love you, my Hector, you would ask 
for your retirement; then we would leave our families, our an- 
noyances, our surroundings where hatred reigns, and go with 
Lisbeth to some peaceful country-place in Brittany, or where 
you like. There we should see no one, we should be happy, 
far away from the world. Your pension and the little that I 
have in ray own name would suffice for our wants. You 


348 


Cousin Bette, 


have gi’own jealous of late, — well, there you would find your 
Valerie devoted solely to her dear Hector; you would. never 
have to scold her as you did the other day. 

My love! in the exasperated state in which that man has 
put me I cannot and will not I’enounce the sight of you. 
Yes, we must meet in secret, and every day. I share your 
resentment against Marneffe; if you love me, never let him 
have that appointment; let him die as he is — a subordi- 
nate! — My mind is still distracted, his insults ring in my 
ears! Bette, who wished to leave me, now pities me so much 
that she will stay for some days longer. 

My dear treasure, what am I to do ? I see nothing but 
flight. I have always adored the country, — Bretagne, Lan- 
quedoc, wherever it pleases you, if only I am free to love 
you. Poor darling, how I pity you, forced to return to your 
old Adeline, that lachrymal vase! for Marneffe declares he 
will watch over me night and day — he even spoke of a po- 
lice spy ! — No, do not come to me. He is capable of any- 
thing — he who has made me the means of his dastardly 
gains. Would that I could return you every farthing of your 
generous gifts ! Ah ! my dear Hector, I may have been co- 
quettish, I may have seemed to you light-minded, but you do 
not know your Valerie; she liked to torment you, but she 
loves you above all the world. Marneffe cannot prevent your 
seeing your cousin, and I shall arrange with her some way 
for us to meet. Dearest, WTite me a line to make me happy 
since I cannot have your presence! A letter will be to me a 
talisman ; write me from your very soul. I will return the 
letter, for we must be prudent ; I could scarcely hide any- 
thing from him, he prys everywhere. But I pray you, 
reassure your VaMrie, your wife, the mother of your child. 
Ah! to be obliged to write to you — I who have seen you 
every day ! As I say to Lisbeth, I did not know my happiness 
when I had it. A thousand kisses. Adieu. 

Thy 


Valerie. 


Cousin Bette, 


349 


“ Her tears ! ” cried Hulot to himself, as he finished 
the letter and saw the blurred and indecipherable signa- 
ture. “ How is she, Reine?” he said aloud. 

“ Madame is in bed,’^ answered Reine, “ she had a 
violent nervous attack after writing that letter. Oh ! 
it is enough to break one’s heart. She heard Mon- 
sieur coming up the stairs.” 

The baron, greatly troubled, wrote the following 
letter on a sheet of official paper with its printed 
headings : — 

“ Do not distress yourself, my angel. He shall die as he 
is, a sub-director. Your idea is au excellent one ; we will go 
far from Paris, and live happy with our little son. I will 
ask for my retirement, and find a situation on some railroad. 
Ah! my sweet Valerie, I feel my youth renewed by your 
letter. Yes, I will begin my life anew, and I will make, you 
shall see, a fortune for our little one. As I read your letter — 
a thousand times more ardent than those of the ‘ Nouvelle 
Heloise ’ — it worked a miracle within me ; I did not think 
that my love for you could possibly increase. You will find 
me to-night at Lisbeth’s. 

Your Hector for life.” 

Reine carried off this epistle, the first the baron had 
ever written to his sweet friend. The emotions it ex- 
cited counterbalanced the rumblings of the storm which 
was gathering on his horizon ; at this particular mo- 
ment, however, Hulot, feeling sure he could ward off 
the attack on his uncle Fischer, thought only of the 
deficit. 

One of the peculiarities of the Bonapartist character 
is its faith in the power of the sabre, and its conviction 
of the pre-eminence of the military over the civil S3'stem. 


350 


Cousin Bette. 


Hulot scorned a public prosecutor in Algeria, a country 
ruled by the War department. Man is ever what he 
has been. How should the officers of the Imperial 
Guard forget that they had seen the mayors of the 
good cities of the empire, the prefects of the Emperor, 
little emperors themselves, coming humbly to receive 
the Guard, flattering it from end to end of the depart- 
ments and paying sovereign homage to it ? 

At half-past four in the afternoon, the baron went to 
Madame Marnefie’s. His heart beat as he ran up the 
stairs like a young man, for the question was in his 
mind, “ Shall I see her, or shall I not see her? Un- 
der such circumstances how should he remember the 
events of the morning, or the sight of his family in 
tears at his feet? Did not Valerie’s letter, placed in a 
small pocket-book next his heart, prove to him that he 
was better loved than the most agreeable of younger 
men? After ringing the bell the unfortunate baron 
heard the shuffling of Marnefie’s slippers and his odious 
cough. Mamefie opened the door, but not to admit 
the baron ; he put himself in the exact position, and 
pointed to the stairs with precisely the same gesture as 
Hulot had employed in showing him to the door of his 
office. 

“ You are by far too much of a Hulot, Monsieur 
Hulot,” he said. 

The baron attempted to pass in. Marnefie drew a 
pistol from his pocket and cocked it. 

“Monsieur le baron, when a man is as vile as I 
am — for you think me very vile, don’t you ? — he would 
be the worst of galley-slaves if he did not get the profits 
of the honor he has sold. You mean war ; well, you 


Cousin Bette. 


351 


shall have it, and without quarter. Never dare to re- 
turn hcife ; don’t attempt to force a way. I have told 
the commissary of police how matters stand between 
us.” 

Taking advantage of Hulot’s stupefaction, he pushed 
him out and locked the door. 

“The scoundrel!” muttered Hulot, going up to 
Lisbeth’s apartment. “ Now I understand Valerie’s 
letter. Yes, she and I will leave Paris ; she is mine 
for the rest of m3" daj^s ; she will close my eyes at the 
last.” 

Lisbeth was not at home. Madame Olivier informed 
him that she had gone to Madame Hulot’s, hoping to 
meet him there. 

“ Poor old girl ! I did not think her so clever as she 
proved to be this morning,” thought the baron as he 
made his wa3’ to the rue Plumet. At the corner of the 
rue Vanneau and the rue de Baby lone he turned and 
looked at the Eden from which H3"men had banished 
him, the sword of the law in hand. Valerie, sitting at 
her window, was gazing after him ; as he raised his 
head she waved her handkerchief, but the infamous 
Marneffe struck it down and pulled her violentl3" back. 
Tears came into the baron’s e3"es. “ To be thus loved, 
and to see her ill-treated ! ” he said to himself, “ and to 
be almost seventy years old ! ” 

Lisbeth had gone to announce the good news to the 
family. Adeline and Hortense already knew that the 
baron, not willing to disgrace himself in the e3"es of the 
government by asking for Marneffe’s appointment, would 
find himself dismissed from the house b3’ that worth}’. 
Poor Adeline arranged her dinner hoping that he would 


352 


Cousin Bette, 


find it better than Valerie’s, and the devoted Bette was 
assisting Mariette to produce that result. Cous^’h Bette 
was now the family idol ; mother and daughter em • 
braced her, and told her with touching joy that the 
marshal consented to let her keep his house. 

“ And from that, dear Bette, there is but one step to 
becoming his wife,” said Adeline. 

“ At an}’ rate he did not sa}" no when Victorin pro- 
posed it to him,” said the Countess Steinbock. 

The baron was received b}’ his family with such ten- 
der and touching affection that he was forced to conceal 
his private distress. The marshal came to dinner. After 
dinner Hulot did not go out. Victorin and his wife 
came in, and they all played whist. 

“ It is a long time, Hector,” said the marshal, gravely, 
“ since you have given us such an evening.” 

These words from the elder brother,^ hitherto so in- 
dulgent to the 3’ounger and now blaming him only by 
implication, made a great impression on those present. 
The}’ became aware of a wound in the old heart whose 
painfulness echoed in these words. At eight o’clock 
the baron proposed to Lisbeth to take her home, prom- 
ising to return himself. 

“Lisbeth,” he said, when they were in the street, 
“Ae ill uses her! Ah! I have never loved her as I 
do now ! ” 

“ And I never knew before how Valerie loves you,” 
answered Bette ; “ she is frivolous, coquettish, and likes 
to be courted and flattered ; she wants, as she says her- 
self, to have a comedy of love played about her, but 
you are her one attachment.” 

“ What did she tell you to say to me? ” 


Cousin Bette. 


353 


“ This,” said Lisbeth : ‘‘ She has, as you know, given 
favors to Crevel ; j ou must n’t blame her, for it has put 
her above want for the rest of her days ; but she hates 
him, and the affair is about over. Well, she has the 
key of a certain apartment — ” 

“ Rue du Dauphin,” cried Hulot ; “ I have been there, 
I know it — ” 

“ Here is the key,” said Lisbeth. ‘‘ Get another made 
like it, — two if you can.” 

“ And then? — ” cried Hulot, eagerly. 

“ Then to-morrow I will dine with you and you must 
return me this key (for old Crevel may ask Valerie for 
it), and you can go and meet her the following day ; then 
you can settle your future plans. You are quite safe 
there, for there are two entrances ; if Crevel, who has 
the morals of the regency, as he says, should happen to 
come in by the court you can go out by the shop, and 
vice versa. Well, 3'ou old scamp, ^^ou owe this to me, 
— what are you going to do for me in return ? ” 

“An^’thing you ask.” 

“ Well then, don’t oppose my marriage with your 
brother.” 

“You, Marechale Hulot! you, Comtesse de Forz- 
heim ! ” cried Hector, amazed. 

“Adeline is a baroness!” retorted Bette, in sharp 
and threatening tones. “ Listen to me, you old liber- 
tine ; 3’ou know perfectly well what a state 3"our affairs 
are in ; 3’our family will soon be in the gutter with 
nothing to eat.” 

“ That’s my dread !” cried Hulot, gloomity. 

“ If 3’our brother were to die who would support 3^our 
wife ? The widow of a marshal of France gets a pen- 
28 


354 


Cousin Bette. 


sion of six thousand francs, does n^t she? Well, I wish 
to maiT}^ to secure bread for 3’our wife and daughter, 
3"OU madman ! ” 

“ I did not see it in that light,” returned Hulot. “ Yes, 
I will talk the matter up to my brother. We can all 
trust you. Tell mj’ dear angel that my life is hers.'*^ 

And the baron, after depositing Bette in the rue Van- 
neau, returned home and played whist. Madame Hu- 
lot was now in the seventh heaven of happiness ; her 
husband seemed reallj’ to have returned to home life ; 
for two weeks he went dailj" to the War department, 
came back to dinner at six, and remained the whole 
evening with his family. He even took Adeline and 
Hortense twice to the theatre. The mother and daugh- 
ter caused three masses of thanksgiving to be said, 
praying God to preserve to them the husband and 
father now restored to the famity. 


Cousin Bette. 


355 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

A SUMMONS OP ANOTHER KIND. 

One evening Victorin Hulot remarked to his mother, 
on seeing his father go off to bed, “We ought to be 
happy now that my father has returned to his home. 
Celestine and I do not regret the loss of our mone}^ if 
the change only lasts.” 

“ Your father is nearly seventy years old,” said the 
baroness. “He still thinks of Madame Marneffe, — I 
see that ; but before long he will forget her. A passion 
for women is like pla}^ or speculation, or avarice, — 
there comes an end to it.” 

The beautiful Adeline — for she was still beautiful in 
spite of her fifty years and her bitter griefs — was mis- 
taken in this judgment. Libertines — men whom na- 
ture has endowed with the faculty of loving bej’ond the 
limits which she has fixed for love — are never as old 
as their 3’ears. During this period of his lapse to vir- 
tue the baron went three times to the rue du Dauphin. 
His renewed passion rejuvenated him ; he would have 
sacrificed his honor and his family to Valerie without 
a pang. But Valerie, entirely changed, never spoke 
to him of mone^", nor of the twelve hundred francs for 
their son ; on the contrary’, she oflered him money. She 
seemed to love her Hulot as a woman of thirty-six loves 
a law-student who is very poor, very poetic, and very 


856 


Cousin Bette, 


loving. All this while poor Adeline thought she was 
recovering her Hector. 

The fourth rendezvous was to take place at nine 
o’clock one morning. About eight Reine arrived, and 
asked to see the baron. Hulot, fearing a catastrophe, 
went out to speak to her, not wishing that she should 
enter the apartment. The woman gave him the follow- 
ing note ; — 

My old Hero, — Don’t go to the rue du Dauphin. Our 
nightmare is ill, and I must nurse him. But be there at 
nine o’clock this evening. Crevel has gone to Corbeil to 
stay with Monsieur Lebas, and I am sure he won’t come to 
the little house. I have made all my arrangements so that 
I can get back before Marneffe needs me in the morning. 
Answer about all this. Perhaps your walking elegy of a wife 
does not allow you as much liberty as you once had. They 
say she is still handsome, and that you are capable of betray- 
ing me. Burn this letter ; I distrust everybody. 

Hulot wrote in reply : — 

Dear Angel, — My wife, as I have told you before, has 
never hindered my pleasures for more than twenty-five years. 
I would sacrifice a hundred A^delines for you ! I will await 
my divinity in Crevel’s temple at nine o’clock this evening. 
I trust the sub-director may soon die, so that we need never 
be separated. That is the dearest wish of 

Your Hector. 

That evening the baron told his wife that he was to 
meet the ministers at Saint Cloud, and should not be 
back till the following day ; he then departed for the 
rue du Dauphin. This was about the end of June. 

Few men have lived to recall the terrible sensation of 


Cousin Bette, 


357 


going to their death. Those who come back reprieved 
from the scaffold are soon counted ; but some dream- 
ers have vividly experienced this death-agony in their 
dreams ; they have even felt the cold steel of the knife 
upon their necks at the instant when their awakening 
delivered them. Well, the sensation that overtook the 
councillor of state when he awoke at five o’clock in the 
morning, in Crevel’s pretty and coquettish apartment, 
far surpassed any mere dream of lying with one’s head 
above the fatal basket in presence of ten thousand spec- 
tators gazing at us with twenty thousand flaming darts. 
Valerie was still sleeping. The baron’s eyes, wandering 
round the room like those of a man just waking who 
tries to recall his ideas, fell upon a door covered with 
flowers painted by Jan, an artist then in vogue. The 
baron did not see, like the man condemned to death, 
twentj^ thousand blazing e^’es ; he saw only one eye, 
whose glance, however, was more piercing than the score 
of thousands on the place de Greve. This sensation, 
inasmuch as it came in the midst of happiness, was cer- 
tainly rare in the case of a condemned man. The baron 
remained in his horizontal position, but a cold sweat 
bedewed his person. He tried to doubt his senses ; but 
the eye began to speak, and a murmur of voices was 
heard beyond the door. 

“ Can it be Crevel trying to play a joke on me?” 
thought the baron, no longer able to doubt that some 
one had invaded the temple. 

The door opened. French law in all its majesty ad- 
vanced in the form of a worthy little commissary of 
police, accompanied by a tall justice of the peace and 
Monsieur Marneffe. The commissary of police, stand- 


358 


Cousin Bette. 


ing with his lower extremities in two shoes whose flaps 
were tied with bows of muddy ribbon, exhibited above 
a yellow skull deficient in hair which denoted a sly dog 
and a lively one, for whom Paris held no secrets. His 
eyes, covered with spectacles, sent shrewd and sarcastic 
glances through the crj^stals. The justice of the peace, 
an old lawyer and an admirer of the fair sex, envied 
the culprit. 

“ Have the goodness to excuse the requirements of 
our duty, Monsieur le baron,” said the commissary; “we 
are summoned here by the complainant. The judge has 
authorized an entrance to the domicile. I know you. 
Monsieur le baron, and also the female delinquent.” 

Valerie opened a pair of astonished eyes and gave 
the piercing cry which actresses have invented to ex- 
press madness on the stage. She rolled in convulsions 
on the bed, like a demoniac of the middle ages in a 
brimstone shirt on a pyre of fagots. 

“Death! Hector! The police court! Oh, never ! 
never ! ” 

She sprang up and darted like a white cloud past the 
three spectators and hid. herself behind the honheur du 
jour in the adjoining room, with her head in her hands. 

“ Lost ! lost ! dead ! ” she cried. 

“Monsieur,” said Marneffe, to Hulot, if my wife 
becomes insane you will be more than a libertine, you 
will be an assassin.” 

What could a man under such circumstances say? 
As follows : — 

“ Monsieur le commissaire, and you Monsieur le 
juge,” said the baron, with dignity, “have the good- 
ness to care at once for that unhapp}’ woman whose 


Cousin Bette. 


359 


reason seems to be in danger. You can continue j^our 
proceedings later. The doors are doubtless locked ; be- 
sides, neither of us can escape in the condition in which 
you find us.” 

The two functionaries complied with this request. 

“ Come here and speak to me, you miserable hound !” 
said Hulot, in a low voice to Marneffe, taking his arm 
and drawing him towards him. “ It is not I who am the 
assassin, it is you ! You are anxious to be the head of 
your department and officer of the Legion of honor ? ” 

“Extremel}^ anxious, my director,” said Marneffe, 
bowing. 

“ Well, you shall be. Go and protect your wife, and 
send away those men.” 

“Not so fast,” said Marneffe, shrewdly. “Those 
gentlemen have to write out the particulars of the 
charge — in flagrante delicto; if I don’t get that paper 
in hand what security have I? You have stolen my 
wife and you have not made me head of my depart- 
ment. Monsieur le baron, I give you two days to do 
it in, — if not, here are some letters — ” 

“ Letters? ” cried the baron, interrupting Marneffe. 

“Yes, letters which prove that the child my wife is 
now carrying is yours. You understand me ? You here 
promise to settle on my son an income equal to that 
which your bastard will take from him. But I will not 
exact it. To-morrow morning I must be appointed suc- 
cessor to Monsieur Coquet, and named on the list of 
officers of the Legion of honor at the ffites of July next, 
or — the present charge made in due form will be 
brought before the police courts. I ’m a good easy fel- 
low to you, to set you free on those terms, am I not? ” 


360 


Cousin Bette. 


“ What a prettj’ woman ! ” said the judge to the com- 
missary of police ; “it would be pity if she went mad.” 

“ She is not mad,” said the commissary, in a low 
voice. 

The police are doubt incarnate. 

“Monsieur le Baron Hulot has fallen into a trap,” 
he continued, speaking loud enough for Valerie to hear 
him. 

Valerie gave him a glance that would have killed him 
if e^’es could stab with the rage the}^ contain. The com- 
missary smiled ; he too had set his trap, and the woman 
had tumbled into it ! Marneffe told his wife to come 
back into the room and dress herself ; he had settled 
matters with the baron, who took a dressing-gown and 
went into the adjoining room. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, to the two functionaries, “ I 
need not ask 3'ou to keep this matter secret? ” 

The officials bowed. The commissary gave two little 
taps on the door and his clerk entered, sat down before 
the writing-table and began to write at the dictation of 
his superior, who spoke in a low voice. Valerie con- 
tinued to weep aloud. When the charge was formally 
written out, Marneffe wanted to take away his wife ; 
but Hulot, believing that he saw her for the last time, 
begged by a gesture to be allowed the favor of speaking 
to her. 

“Monsieur, madame has cost me enough to make 
you willing that I should bid her adieu — in the pres- 
ence of all, of course,” he said. 

Valerie came in, and Hulot whispered quickly, 
“Flight is all that remains to us; how can we cor- 
respond? some one has betrayed us.” 


Cousin Bette. 


861 


“ Reine,” she answered ; “ but, my dear friend, after 
this exposure we must never see each other again. I 
am disgraced. Besides, they will tell you shameful 
things about me, and you will believe them.” The 
baron made a gesture of denial. You will believe 
them, and I thank heaven for it, — 3’ou will regret me 
less — ” 

“ He will not * die as he is, sub-director ! ’ ” said Mar- 
neffe in the baron’s ear, roughly taking his wife’s arm : 
“ Enough, madame ; if I am weak towards 3*ou, I am 
not a fool toward others.” 

Valerie left Crevel’s little house with a last glance 
at the baron which convinced him he was adored. 
When the legal papers were all signed the commissaiy 
of police looked knowingl}’ at Hulot over his spectacles. 

“You love that little lad)’, Monsieur le baron?” he 
said. 

“ To m)^ sorrow, as \’ou see.” 

“ But suppose she does not love 3’ou? ” said the com- 
missar)’ ; “ suppose she has tricked you? ” 

“I know that already, monsieur, — here in this very 
place. Monsieur Crevel himself told me so.” 

“ Ah, then you know that you are in the mayor’s little 
sanctum ? ” 

“I do.” 

The commissary slightly raised his hat as if to salute 
the old man. 

“ You are in love and I will hold my tongue,” he 
said, “ I respect inveterate passions as much as doc- 
tors respect chronic maladies. I once, saw Monsieur de 
Nucingen, the banker, attacked by a passion of that 
nature.” 


362 


Cousin Bette. 


“He is a friend of mine,” remarked the baron ; “I 
have often supped with the beautiful Esther ; she was 
worth the two millions he spent on her.” 

“She cost more,” said the commissary, “the old 
banker’s fancy sacrificed the lives of four persons. 
Such passions are like the cholera.” 

“ What is it that you are trying to tell me?” said 
the councillor of state, who did not relish this indirect 
advice. 

“ Why should I destroy your illusions? ” replied the 
commissar}^ of police ; “it is so rare to keep any at 
your age.” 

“ Relieve me of them, then ! ” cried the baron. 

“ You will curse your physician,” said the official, 
smiling. 

“ I request it of 3"ou, monsieur.” 

“Well, that woman planned all this with her hus- 
band.” 

“Oh!” 

“ That is a thing that happens, monsieur, twice in 
every ten cases. Oh, we know all about it ! ” 

“ What proof can 3^ou give of such collusion?” 

“ In the first place, the husband,” said the commis- 
sar}", with the calmness of a surgeon accustomed to la}’ 
open wounds. “Knavery is written on that dull, in- 
famous face. But I believe 3’ou value a certain letter 
written b}" that woman in which there is mention of a 
child.” 

“ I value it so much that I carry it always with me,” 
said Hulot, fumbling in his pocket for the little port- 
folio which never left him. 

“ Leave the pocket-book where it is,” said the com- 


Cousin Bette. 


363 


missar}’ ; “here is thc;, letter. Did Madame Marneffe 
know what the pocket-book contained ? ” 

“ She alone.” 

“ So I supposed. Here, then, is the proof you ask 
for of her collusion.” 

“ Well, explain,” said the baron, still incredulous. 

“ When we entered this room, monsieur le baron,” 
said the commissary, “ that rascally Marneffe passed in 
first, and he took the letter from this piece of furniture 
[pointing to the honheur du jour\^ where the woman 
had doubtless placed it. Evidently, the very spot where 
she was to place the letter, provided she were able to 
rob you of it while 3^ou slept, had been arranged be- 
tween the wife and husband. You see, of course, that 
the letter the woman wrote to you, together with those 
3’ou wrote to her, are essential to the legal charge.” 

The commissary showed Hulot the letter which Reine 
had brought to his office at the ministr}". 

“Give it back, monsieur; it is now part of the in- 
dictment,” said the official. 

“ Monsieur,” said Hulot, whose face was now dis- 
torted, “that woman is licentiousness cut into slices. 
I am certain now that she has three lovers.” 

“ That’s evident,” said the commissary. “All pros- 
titutes are not in the streets. When women take up 
that trade, monsieur, in salons or their own homes, and 
go about in carriages, mone}" is not counted by francs 
and centimes. Mademoiselle Esther, of whom you spoke, 
and who poisoned herself, squandered millions. Suffer 
me to say, Monsieur le baron, that if I were you I should 
cut loose from such things. This last affair will cost 3’ou 
dear. That scoundrel of a husband has the law on his 


364 


Cousin Bette. 


side. If it were not for me tljat little woman would 
have got 3’ou again — ” 

“ I thank 3'ou,” said the baron, endeavoring to be- 
have with dignit3\ 

“ Monsieur, we are going to lock up the apartment ; 
the farce is pla3^ed out. Will 3’ou have the goodness to 
return the key to Monsieur Crevel ? ” 

Hulot returned home in a state of despondenc3^ which 
was almost prostration ; he was lost in gloom3’ thought. 
Waking up his pure and saintl3" wife, he poured the 
histor3’ of the last three 3’ears into her bosom, weeping 
like a child that has lost its to3- . This confession of an 
old man, 3"Oung in desires, — this horrible and blasting 
epic, — though it moved Adeline to pity, nevertheless 
filled her with the liveliest inward 303". She thanked 
Heaven for the blow by which she believed her husband 
was driven at last and forever to his home. 

“ Lisbeth was right,” she said in a gentle voice, and 
without an3" useless reproaches ; “ she warned us of all 
this.” 

“Yes. Ah, if I had only listened to her instead of 
getting angry that day when I wanted poor Hortense to 
return to her home so as not to compromise the repu- 
tation of that — Oh, m3' dear Adeline ! we must rescue 
Wenceslas ! he is in the mire up to his chin ! ” 

“ M3" poor Hector, the little bourgeoise has served 
3'ou no better than the actresses,” said his wife. 

The baroness was shocked at the change in her hus- 
band. When she saw him unhapp3", wretched, bowed 
down under the weight of his anxieties, she was all 
heart, all pit3’, all love. She would have given her life’s 
blood to be able to make him happy. ‘ 


Cousin Bette. 


365 


“ Stay with us, dear IJector. Show me how it is that 
those women make j^ou love them ; I will try. Why 
have you not made me what you wanted of me ? Is it 
that I am too dull ? There are some who think me still 
handsome enough to court.” 

Many married women, attached to their husbands and 
faithful to their duty, may well ask why men who are 
so loyal, so kind, so compassionate to the Madame Mar- 
neffes never make their wives, especially when they re- 
semble Adeline Hulot, the objects of their fancy and 
their passions. Here we find one of the deepest myste- 
ries of the human organization. Love — that vast ex- 
cess of reason, the stern and virile pleasure of great 
souls — and enjoyment — the vulgar happiness sold in 
the streets — are two aspects of the same thing. The 
woman who can satisfy’ these two cravings of man’s 
double nature is as rare in her sex as the great general, 
the great writer, the great artist, the great inventor is 
among a people. The man of superiority equally with 
the common man — a Hulot as well as a Crevel — feels 
a need of the ideal and of the material pleasure both ; 
they all seek the mysterious hermaphrodite, the rare 
being who comes to them, as a general thing, in two 
volumes. Libertines, those treasure-seekers, are as guilty 
as other raisdoers who are punished more severely than 
they. This reflection is not intended as a moral aside ; 
it gives the reason of many uncomprehended sorrows. 
The present scene, however, carries with it moral truths 
of more than one description. 

The baron went at once to the Marechal Prince de 
Wissembourg, whose powerful protection was his last 
resource. Patronized by the old warrior for the last 


866 


Cousin Bette, 


thirty-five years, he had the right to ask for an audi- 
ence whenever he pleased, and he now went to the mar- 
shal’s apartment at his hour of rising. 

‘‘ Well, good morning, my dear Hector,” said the 
great and good chieftain. What ’s the matter? You 
look worried. The session is finished, thank God, — 
another over and done with, as I used to say of the 
campaigns. Faith, I believe the newspapers now call 
the sessions of the Chambers ‘ parliamentary cam- 
paigns.’ ” 

“ Yes, it is all bad, Marechal ; but it is the fault of 
the times in which we live,” said Hulot. “ It can’t be 
helped ; the world is made so. Every epoch has its 
disadvantages. The great evil of this present year of 
grace 1841 is that neither king nor ministers are free to 
act as the Emperor did.” 

The Marechal gave Hulot one of those eagle glances 
whose lucid brightness, perspicacity, and pride, showed 
that in spite of years the great soul was ever vigorous 
and firm. 

“You want something? ” he said, assuming a playful 
manner. 

“I am under the necessity of asking a personal fa- 
vor, — the promotion of one of my sub-directors to the 
head of his bureau and his nomination as officer of the 
Legion of honor.” 

“ What is his name ? ” said the Marechal, with a light- 
ning glance at the baron. 

“ Marneffe.” 

“ He has a pretty wife ; I saw her at the marriage of 
your daughter. If Roger — but Roger is not here now. 
Hector, my son ; this concerns one of your love-affairs. 


Cousin Bette. 


36T 


So you still keep up that sort of thing? You do honor 
to the Imperial Guard? My dear fellow, you must drop 
this matter ; it is too gallant to be official.” 

“ I cannot, marechal ; it is a bad business and threat- 
ens me with the police-court ; you would not wish to see 
me there? ” 

“The devil!” cried the Marechal, grave at once. 
“ Go on.” 

“ I am like a fox caught in a trap. You have always 
been $o good to me that I know you will deign to help 
me out of the humiliating position in which I find 
myself — ” 

And Hulot related his misadventure in the liveliest 
and wittiest manner he could assume. 

“ Prince,” he said, as he ended, “ would you have 
my brother, whom you love so well, die of mortification, 
— could 3"ou suffer one of 3’our directors and a council- 
lor of state to be disgraced? Marneffe is a degraded 
scoundrel, but we can retire him in a 3’ear or two.” 

“ How lightly you talk of a 3'ear or two, mjr dear 
friend,” said the marshal. 

“ Prince, the Imperial Guard is immprtal.” 

“I am the only surviving marshal of the first appoint- 
ments,” said the minister. “ Hear me, Hector ; you do 
not know how truly I am attached to you ; but you shall 
know. The day when I leave the ministry you will 
have to leave it too. Ah ! 3’ou are not a deputy, m3’ 
friend. There are plenty of persons seeking 3’our place ; 
and if it were not for me 3"Ou could not keep it. Yes, I 
have broken many a lance in 3’our behalf. Well, I grant 
both your requests because it would be too hard to let 
3^ou go into the prisoner’s-dock at 3’Our age and in your 


368 


Cousin Bette. 


position. But 3’ou have caused too much gossip for 
3’our own credit. If this appointment gives rise to 
comment, we shall be blamed. As for me I don’t 
care ; but it will be another thorn in 3’our foot ; at 
the next session you will be turned out. Your place is 
alread}" offered as a bait to five or six influential men, and 
you onl}^ keep it now on the strength of m3' arguments. 
I tell mj'^ colleagues that the da}' on which 3'our place 
is given to another man there will be five discontented 
aspirants and only one man satisfied ; whereas sc long 
as they keep you hanging b}^ a thread we are sure of 
six votes. They laugh and declare that the ‘ ancient 
of da3^s/ as the}' call me, is becoming a parliamentary 
tactician. I tell you this plainly. Besides, you are 
getting old, — however, you are lucky to be still able 
to get into scrapes. Alas ! where are the days when 
sub-lieutenant Cottin had his mistresses ! ” 

The marechal rang the bell. 

“We must tear up that indictment,” he said. 

“ Monseigneur, you treat me like a father ; and yet I 
feared to tell you my trouble.” 

“ I wish Roger were here,” cried the marshal, seeing 
Mitouflet, the usher, enter. “ Go away, Mitouflet. My 
old comrade, you must make out the papers for these 
appointments yourself. I will sign them ; but that in- 
famous fellow shall not long enjoy the fruit of his crimes. 
I shall have liim watched, and broken at the head of his 
company as soon as I catch him tripping. Now that 
you are safe, my dear Hector, be careful in future. Don’t 
wear out your friends. The appointment shall be given 
to-day, and that man shall be made ofijeer of the Legion 
in July. How old are you now ? ” 


Cousin Bette. 


369 


“ Seventy, in three months.’* 

“What a gay old boy!” said the marshal, smiling. 
“ It is you who deserve promotion, but — blood and bul- 
lets ! we are not under Louis XV ! ” 

Such is the tie that binds these glorious relics of the 
Napoleonic phalanx, who fancy the}" are still in a biv- 
ouac and bound to protect each other through and against 
all. 

“ One more favor like that,” thought Hulot, as he 
crossed the courtyard, “ and I am lost.” 

The unhappy functionary now betook himself to Baron 
Nucingen, to whom he still owed a comparatively insig- 
nificant sum of money, and succeeded in borrowing forty 
thousand francs more by assigning over his salary for 
the next two years ; but the banker stipulated that in 
case Hulot lost his office the available portion of his 
retiring pension should be given as security for the sum 
now borrowed until capital and interest were both paid. 
This new transaction was done, like the former, in the 
name of Vauvinet ; to whom the baron gav4 his note for 
twelve thousand francs. On the following day the fatal 
indictment, the complaint of the husband, and the letters, 
were wiped out as though they had never existed. The 
scandalous appointments of the Sieur Marnefle passed 
almost without notice during the bustle of the fetes of 
July, and were not commented upon even in the news- 
papers. 


24 


370 


Cousin Bette. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A NOBLE COURTESAN. 

Lisbeth, having apparently quarrelled with Madame 
Marneffe, took up her abode with Marechal Hulot. 
Ten daj’s later the first banns of marriage between the 
spinster and the illustrious old soldier were published. 
To obtain the latter’s consent Adeline told him of the 
financial catastrophe which had overtaken Hector, beg- 
ging him not to speak of it to her husband, who, she 
said, was gloomy, much depressed, in fact despondent. 
“ Alas ! he is getting old,” she added. 

Lisbeth triumphed. She was about to reach the sum- 
mit of her ambition ; her plans were succeeding ; her 
hatred was satisfied. She enjoyed through anticipation 
the happiness of reigning over a famih^ b}^ whom she had 
long felt herself despised. She intended to be the pro- 
tectress of her protectors, the guardian angel of the 
ruined household ; she bowed to her refiection in the 
glass, calling herself “ Madame la comtesse” and “ Ma- 
dame la marechale.” Adeline and Hortense w’^ere 
doomed to end their days in distress, struggling with 
poverty, while she, their despised cousin Bette, received 
at the Tuileries, would be a power in society. 

A terrible event upset the old maid’s calculations, 
and fiung her from the heights on which she was proudly 
standing. 


Cousin Bette. 


3T1 


The day after the banns were first published the 
baron received a missive from Africa. Another Alsatian 
appeared, delivered a letter, after convincing himself 
that he gave it to Baron Hulot in person, and departed, 
giving his address, and leaving the high functionary 
stunned by the first words of the epistle : — 

Nephew, — You will receive this letter, as I calculate, 
about the 7th of August. Supposing that you require three 
days to obtain the relief we need, and that it takes fifteen 
more to send it here, I ought to get a reply by the first of 
September. 

If you accomplish the matter within that time you will 
save the honor and the life of your devoted Johann Fischer. 

This is what the official whom you made my accomplice 
demands. I am, it appears, liable to be brought before either 
the police courts or a council of war. You can well believe 
that no one shall ever drag Johann Fischer before any earthly 
tribunal ; he will himself go before that of God. 

Your official strikes me as a rascal, who will sooner or 
later compromise you; but he is a clever scoundrel. He de- 
clares that you ought to cry out lustily for reform, and send 
commissions and inspectors specially charged to discover the 
guilty parties and ferret out abuses and talk severely, while 
in reality they stand between us and the courts by provoking 
controversy. 

If you could send such a commission, taking its orders 
from you, to be here by September 1, and if you can also 
send us two hundred thousand francs with which to fill the 
storehouses with the supplies which we are supposed to keep 
at the distant stations, we shall be thought solvent and im- 
maculate. 

You can rely on the soldier who delivers this letter. Give 
him a check to my order on any bank in Algiers. He is a 
safe man, a father, and quite incapable of seeking to know 


372 


Cousin Bette, 


what he carries. I have taken measures to make sure of his 
safe return. If you are unable to do this, I shall die wil- 
lingly for one to whom we owe the happiness of our Adeline. 

The agonies and delights of his passion, and the 
catastrophe which had just overtaken his career of gal- 
lantry, had prevented Baron Hulot from even thinking 
of poor Johann Fischer, whose first letter warned him 
of the danger now become imminent. The baron left 
the dining-room in such trouble of mind that he flung 
himself on the sofa in the salon. He was prostrated, 
benumbed, under the shock of such a fall. For a while 
he gazed at the pattern of the carpet without observing 
that he held the fatal letter in his hand. Adeline heard 
him fall on the sofa like an inert mass. The noise 
was so peculiar that she imagined an attack of apo- 
plex3". A prey to the terror which stops our breath and 
holds us motionless, she looked through the door into a 
mirror on the opposite wall, and saw her Hector in the 
posture of a man felled b}" a blow. She went to him 
softly on tiptoe ; the baron did not hear her ; she leaned 
over him, saw the letter, took it, read it, and trembled 
in ever}’ limb. One of those violent nervous convulsions 
from which the body never entirely recovers seized her ; 
she became subject, a few days later, to a constant quiv- 
ering motion of the head ; for, after the first horrible 
shock had passed, the necessity of action roused a 
momentar}^ strength which can be taken only from the 
very sources of vitalit}’. 

“ Hector, come into my bedroom,” she said, in a 
voice that was scarcely above a breath. “Don’t let 
your daughter see you thus. Come, dear friend, come.” 


Cousin Bette. 


373 


“ Where can I get two hundred thousand francs? I 
could make Claude Vignon inspector; he would he faith- 
ful to me. That could he managed in two da3^s ; hut 
two hundred thousand francs, — how could I get them ? 
Victorin has n’t got such a sum ; his property’ is mort- 
gaged for three hundred thousand francs. brother 
has laid h}^ very little out of his salaries. Nucingen 
would laugh in my face. Vauvinet — I could scarce^ 
get ten thousand francs for the child of that infa- 
mous Marneffe out of him. No, it is all over with 
me. I must go to the Marechal and fling myself on 
his mercy and confess all. I must hear mj^self called 
a scoundrel. I ’d rather receive a broadside and go to 
the bottom decently ! ” 

“ But, Hector, this is not ruin onl3’, it is dishonor,” 
said Adeline. “ My poor uncle will kill himself. Kill 
us, — for 3’ou have the right to do so, — hut do not mur- 
der him. Take courage ; we must find a way to send 
him this money.” 

“ There is no wa}^,” said the baron. ‘‘ No one in 
the government could lay hold of two hundred thousand 
francs, were it even to save the ministiy. Ah, Napo- 
leon ! wh}' is he no longer here ! ” 

“ My uncle, poor man ! Hector, we must not let 
him die dishonored.” 

“There might be one wa}',” he said, “but — it 
is very doubtful. Yes, Crevel is at daggers drawn 
with his daughter ; he has money enough — he alone 
could — ” 

“Hector, better that your wife should perish than 
that our uncle, 3’our brother, the honor of our famil}’ 
should be destroj^ed,” said Madame Hulot, struck as 


874 


Cousin Bette, 


by a flash of light. “ Yes, I can save 3^ou all. — Oh, 
my God, this shameful thought ! how did it ever come 
to me ? ” 

She clasped her hands and fell on her knees and said . 
a praj^er ; then, rising, she saw an expression of such 
wild hope on her husband’s face, that again the diabolical 
thought assailed her, and she sank into a species of 
idiocy. 

“ Go, go, m}'^ friend, go to the ministry,” she sud- 
denly cried, rousing herself from this torpor. “ Try to 
send the inspector; wind the Mar^chal round 3rour 
finger; when you get back here you may find — yes, 
3rou shall find the two hundred thousand francs. Your 
family, jrour honor as a man, as a public officer, as a 
member of the government, 3^our uprightness, 3"our son, 
all shall be saved — except 3’our Adeline — she must 
perish ; you will never see her again. Hector,” she 
said, kneeling down and taking his hand and kissing it, 

“ bless me and say farewell.” 

The scene was agonizing ; as Hector raised his wife 
and kissed her he said, “ I do not understand 3"OU.” 

‘•If 3^011 did understand me,” she said, “I should 
die with shame, or I should have no strength to make 
you this last sacrifice.” 

“ Breakfast is ready,” said Mariette. 

Hortense came up to wish her father and mother 
good-morning. It was necessary to gather round the 
table with deceitful faces. 

“Take 3^our breakfast without me,” said the baron- 
ess, “ I will join 3"ou later.” 

She sat down at her table and wrote the following 
note : — 


Cousin Bette, 


375 


My dear Monsieur Crevel, — I have a service to ask 
of you ; will you come to me this morning ? I rely on your 
gallantry, which I know so well, not to keep me waiting. 

Your devoted servant, 

Adeline Hulot. 

“ Louise,” she said to her daughter’s maid, “ take 
this letter to the porter and tell him to carry it at once 
to that address and ask for an answer.” 

The baron, who was reading the newspapers when 
she re-entered the room, handed her a Republican news- 
paper. Pointing to an article, he whispered, “ Is there 
still time ? Read that ; it is one of those hateful para- 
graphs with which they butter their political muffins.” 
The article read as follows : — 

“ Our correspondent in Algiers writes that such abuses 
have been discovered in the commissariat department of the 
Province of Oran that the law has been compelled to step in. 
The malpractices are evident, and the guilty parties known. 
If this evil is not severely repressed we shall continue to 
lose more men through the extortions and peculations which 
affect their rations than by the lances of the Arabs or the 
heat of the climate. We await further developments before 
saying more on this deplorable subject.” 

“ I shall dress and go to the ministr}',” said the baron, 
as he left ttie table. “Time is precious; a man’s life 
hangs on ever}^ minute.” 

“ Oh, mamma, I have no longer any hope,” said 
Hortense ; “ see ! ” Unable to restrain her tears, she 
gave her mother a magazine devoted to the fine arts, 
in which was an engraving of Steinbock’s Delilah with 
the words, “ Group belonging to Madame Marneffe.” 


376 


Cousin Bette, 


Every line of the accompanying article, signed, V.,” 
revealed the talent and the obligingness of Claude 
Vignon. 

“ Poor darling ! ” said Madame Hulot. 

Amazed at the half-indifferent tone in which her 
mother said the words, Hortense looked up at her, and 
beheld the signs of a sorrow in presence of which her 
own griefs sank down ; she went up to Madame Hulot 
and kissed her, saying, “ Mamma, what is it? Can we 
be more unhappy than we now are ? ” 

“ My child, my past sufferings seem to me as noth- 
ing to those I now endure. Oh, when shall I cease to 
suffer ? ” 

“ In heaven, mother,” sobbed Hortense. 

When Adeline returned to her room she went 
straight to the looking-glass and gazed mournfully and 
searchingly^ at herself as if to ask, “ Am I still beau- 
tiful? Shall I still attract? Have I any wrinkles?” 

She pushed up the beautiful blond hair from her 
temples ; they were fresh and pure as those of a y’oung 
girl ; so were the arms and shoulders, and a momen- 
tary' sense of pride came over her. The beauty of a 
woman’s shoulders is the last to leave her, especially' if 
her life has been a pure one. Adeline selected the ele- 
ments of her toilet carefully ; yet when all was done the 
chaste and pious woman was still chastely' attired, in 
spite of her little efforts at coquettishness. Of what 
use were the gray' silk stockings and the sandalled 
slippers to a woman wholly^ ignorant how to show a 
pretty foot at a decisive moment ! She wore her dain- 
tiest dress of muslin, with painted flowers, made low 
with short sleeves ; then, shocked at the exposure, she 


Cousin Bette. 


377 


covered the beautiful arms with gauze draperies, and 
veiled the shoulders with an embroidered scarf. The 
curls of her hair h I’anglaise struck her as too signi- 
ficant, and she restrained their luxuriance under an 
elegant lace cap ; but with or without a cap would she 
have known how to pla^’ with the golden ringlets and 
show the grace of her tapering fingers ? Yet her anguish 
made her a painted image : the sense of her criminal- 
ity, these preparations for a deliberate deed, burned 
the devoted woman with an inward fever which gave 
her back the bloom of youth. Her complexion glowed, 
her e3’es sparkled. But this, instead of making her 
seductive, gave her, and she saw it with horror, an air 
that was almost shameless. Lisbeth had told her the 
circumstances of Steinbock’s infidelity, and the baron- 
ess had then learned to her amazement that in one 
evening, in one moment, Madame Marneffe had made 
herself mistress of the seduced artist. “ How do such 
women manage it? ” she had asked Lisbeth. Nothing 
equals the curiosity' of pure women on this subject ; they 
long to possess the attractions of vice, remaining vir- 
tuous. “ Whj’,” answered Bette, “ they seduce — that ’s 
their business. Valerie was seductive enough that night 
to drag an angel to perdition.” “Tell me how she 
did it?” “Oh, there is no theory in that trade; 
practice is the one thing needful.” ' The baroness now 
recollected this conversation. Poor woman ! incapable 
of inventing a mouche or putting a rose-bud in her 
bosom, or contriving any of the stratagems of dress 
which awaken desire, she was nothing more than care- 
fully attired. No woman can be a courtesan at will. 
“ Woman is a man’s porridge,” sa^’s Moliere, by the 


378 


Cousin Bette, 


mouth of the ever-wise Gr'os-Rene. This comparison 
applies a sort of culinaiy science to love ; pursuing 
the metaphor, the virtuous and honorable woman be- 
comes the Homeric feast of flesh flung on the blaz- 
ing coals ; the Courtesan, a production of Monsieur 
Careme, a triumph of spices and condiments. Madame 
Hulot could not serve up her white shoulders in a dish 
of guipure, like Madame Marneffe, for she knew not 
how. The noble woman might have turned and looked 
back a hundred times without attracting the well-trained 
eye of a libertine. To be a virtuous, prudent wife in the 
ej^es of the world, and make herself a courtesan to her 
husband, is the attribute of a woman of genius — such 
women are few indeed. Therein lies the secret of life- 
long attachments, inexplicable to women who are not 
possessed of those splendid two-fold faculties. Imagine 
Madame Marneffe virtuous and 3’ou have the Marquise 
de Pescaire. These grand and illustrious women, these 
beautiful and virtuous Dianes are soon counted. 

The scene with which this terrible and solemn stud}’ 
of Parisian morals opened is now to be reproduced, 
with the singular difference that the prophec}’ of the 
militia captain was fulfilled under an absolute change 
of parts. Madame Hulot awaited Crevel with those 
intentions which three years earlier had made him 
smile with self-complacenc}" as he sat erect in his 
milord. 

Strange truth ! Adeline was faithful to herself, to her 
heart’s love, in making herself guilt}’ of the grossest in- 
fidelity — as it will seem to the eyes of certain judges. 
“How can I become a Madame MarneflTe?” she was 
saying to herself as the bell rang. She repressed her 


Cousin Bette. 


379 


tears ; fever fired her cheeks ; she pledged herself to be 
indeed a courtesan, — poor, noble creature ! 

“ What the devil does that good Madame Hulot want 
of me ? ” thought Crevel, as he puffed up the stairwa3\ 
“ I ’ll bet it ’s about m^^ quarrel with Celestine and Vic- 
torin.” When he followed Louise into the salon he said 
to himself, as he looked at what he called the “ naked- 
ness of the land,” “Poor soul! she is like a fine pic- 
ture stuck in a garret by a man who does n’t know what 
painting is.” 

Crevel, we maj' remark, had observed Comte Popinot, 
minister of Commerce, bu^dng pictures and statues, 
and wished to be himself ranked among the Parisian 
Mecsenases, whose love of art is shown in their search 
for good bargains. 

Adeline smiled graciously on Crevel, and signed to 
him to take a chair. 

“ Here I am, my dear lady, at 3’our orders,” said the 
mayor. 

Having become a political character, Crevel now 
dressed in black cloth. His face shone above his dark- 
ling garments like the full moon rising from a curtain 
of black clouds. His shirt, starred by three large pearls 
worth five hundred francs apiece, gave a high idea of 
the thoracic capacities behind it, — indeed, he called 
himself the “ future athlete of the tribune.” His large 
and vulgar hands wore the inevitable 3"ellow gloves ; 
his varnished boots proclaimed the little coupe in which 
he drove about. For the last three years ambition had 
considerably changed his favorite posture. Like the 
great painters, he attained his “ second manner.” In 
societ3^, when he went to the houses of such people as 


380 


Cousin Bette. 


the Prince de Wissembourg and Comte Popinot he held 
his hat in one hand in a free and eas}^ manner which 
Valerie had taught him, inserting the thumb of the 
other into the arm-hole of his waistcoat with a jaunty 
air, grimacing all the while with head and eyes. This 
new pose was due to his malicious mistress, who, under 
pretence of rejuvenating her mayor, trained him to be 
more ridiculous than ever. 

‘‘ I begged you to come, my good, my dear Monsieur 
Crevel, on a matter of the utmost importance — ” 

“ I can guess it, madame,” said Crevel, with a shrewd 
air. “ But what you want is impossible. Oh, I ’ra not a 
barbarous father, — not, as Napoleon said, a solid block 
of avarice. Listen to me, m}^ dear lady. If m}^ chil- 
dren were wasting their money on themselves I would 
go to their assistance ; but to stop j’our husband’s leaks 
— heavens ! one might as well attempt to fill the tub of 
the Danaides I Fancy mortgaging their house for three 
hundred thousand francs to help an incorrigible father ! 
They have n’t anj^thing left, poor things ! — and they 
did n’t get any fun out of it, either. The}’ will have 
nothing now to live on but what Victorin can earn by 
his profession. It is all very well for him to give him- 
self airs. He was going to be a minister, was he ? — 
the family hope ! A pretty fellow at the helm, faith ! 
Why, he has run himself ashore at the start! If he 
were shoii; of money to help him on, — if he went into 
debt for feasting the deputies, I should say to him, 
‘Here’s my purse; dip into it.’ But to pay for his 
father’s vices, — those vices I told you about, — no ! 
His father’s misdeeds have thrown him out of a public 
career. It is I who will be made a minister, madame.” 


Cousin Bette. 


381 


“ Alas ! dear Crevel, it was not about our children — 
poor devoted creatures ! — that I wished to see j’ou. If 
your heart is closed against Celestine and Victorin, I 
must love them well enough to soften the pain they will 
feel at j’our anger. You punish your children for doing 
a good deed.” 

“ Yes, for a good deed ill-done, — a semi-crime,” said 
Crevel, vain of the remark. 

“The wa}^ to do good, dear Crevel,” said the 
baroness, “is, not to give money from an over-full 
purse, but to bear privations for the sake of being 
generous, to suffer in benefiting others, to expect 
ingratitude. Charity which costs nothing is ignored in 
heaven.” 

“ Saints ma}^ die in a hospital, madame ; they know 
that for them it is the gate of heaven. But as for me, 
I am of the world. I fear God ; but I am still more 
afraid of the hell of povert3% To be without a penny 
is the last degree of misery in our present social state. 
I belong to my epoch ; I worship money.’* 

“You are right,” said Adeline, “from the world’s 
stand-point.” 

She was a hundred leagues from the subject in her 
mind, and she felt like Saint Lawrence on his gridiron 
as she thought of her uncle ; her mind wandered to a 
thought of him with a pistol at his head. She lowered 
her eyes ; then she raised them, and looked at Crevel 
with angelic sweetness, but with none of the alluring 
vice so seductive in ValMe. Three years earlier she 
would have fascinated Crevel by that glance. 

“I have known you,” she said, “to be more gene- 
rous ; you once spoke to me of three hundred thou- 


382 


CouBin Bette, 


sand francs as some great lord might have spoken of 
them — ” 

Crevel looked at Madame Hulot ; she seemed to him 
a lily just going out of bloom. A vague idea entered his 
mind ; but he honored the saintly creature so truly that 
he drove back his suspicions into the libertine quarter 
of his mind. 

“ Madame, I am unchanged ; but an old merchant is 
and ought be a great lord, with economy, method, and 
regularity ; he should carry his ideas of order into e\ery- 
thing. He can open an account with foil}', allow it a 
credit, and spend certain profits on it, — but suffer it to 
touch his capital ! that would be madness. My children 
will eventually have their whole property, their mother's 
and mine; but they don't expect their father to be a 
monk or a mummy. My nature is lively ; I float gayly 
down the stream. I fulfil all the duties the law, my own 
heart, and family ties impose upon me, as scrupulously 
as I meet my notes when due. If my children behave 
as well as I do in my own home I shall be satisfied ; 
and as for the rest, provided my follies — and I commit 
follies — don't hurt any one, my children can't reproach 
me, and they 'll get a fine fortune at my death. Your 
children can't say the same of their father, who goes 
heels over head to the ruin of his family." 

The further she went, the farther she got from her 
puipose. “You are yery bitter against my husband, 
dear Crevel," she said ; ‘‘yet you would have been his 
best friend had you found his wife — " 

She gave Crevel a burning glance ; but in so doing 
she made Dubois's mistake when he kicked the Regent 
three times, — she overshot her mark, and the libertine 


Cousin Bette. 


383 


ideas of the regency perfumer came back with such a 
rush that he said to himself, “ Can she want to revenge 
herself on Hulot? It must be that, or does she like me 
better as ma^'or? Women are so queer ! ” whereupon he 
struck the attitude of his second manner, and gazed at 
the baroness with a rakish air. 

“ It almost seems,” she continued, “as if you re- 
venged yourself on him for a virtue which resisted 3'ou, 
— for a woman whom you loved enough — to — to bu}’,” 
she added, in a low voice. 

“ For a divine woman ; ” replied Crevel, smiling sig- 
nificantly at the baroness, whose eyes were moist ; “ what 
indignities 3’ou ’ve had to bear for the last three years ! 
he}’, my dear ? ” 

“ DonH speak of my sufferings, dear Crevel, — they 
are beyond human endurance. Ah, if you still love me, 
pull me from the abyss in which I lie, — I am in hell ! 
the martyrs whom they tortured, and drew, and quartered 
lay on roses compared to me, — their bodies were lacer- 
ated, but my heart is torn apart by wild horses ! ” 

Crevel’s thumb slipped out of his waistcoat, he laid 
his hat on the work-table, lost his attitude, and smiled ! 
The smile was so silly that the baroness mistook its 
meaning and thought it an expression of kindliness. 

“ You see before you a woman, not only in despair, 
but in the death agony of her honor — resolved on all, 
all^ my friend — to prevent crimes.” Then, fearing that 
Hortense might come in, she went to the door and 
slipped the bolt, and with the same impulse, she flung 
herself at Crevel’s feet and kissed his hands. “ Be my 
helper ! ” she cried. She believed there were generous 
fibres in the man’s commercial heart, and a sudden hope 


384 


Cousin Bette. 


flashed before her of obtaining the money without her 
own dishonor. “ a soul — you who once sought 
to buy a virtue,” she cried, wdth a delirious glance. 
‘ ‘ Have faith in my uprightness as a woman, in my 
honor, the strength of which is known to you. Be 
my friend ! Save a family from ruin, shame, de- 
spair; save it from rolling into a slough whose mire 
is made of blood ! Oh ! don’t ask me to tell 3’ou what 
I mean,” she cried, as Crevel made a motion to speak. 
“ Above all, do not say to me, ‘ I told you how it would 
be.’ Hear me ! obey one whom you once said you 
loved, ^ — a woman whose abasement here at your feet 
is perhaps the highest act of her life ; ask her nothing, 
expect all from her gratitude ! — No, give nothing, but 
lend — lend to her you once called Adeline — ” 

Tears choked her words and flow^ed in such abun- 
dance that they wet the gloves on Crevel’s hands and 
'made her next words, “ I need two hundred thousand 
francs,” almost as indistinguishable in the flood of weep- 
ing as the rocks brought down by Alpine torrents swol- 
len b}" the melting snows. 

Such was the inexperience of virtue ! Vice would have 
asked nothing, it would have forced an offer of all. 
Such women as Madame Marneffe await the moment 
when thej" have become indispensable before they show 
themselves exacting. Distinguishing the words “two 
hundred thousand francs,” Crevel understood the whole 
matter. He raised the baroness gallanth’, saying, in an 
insolent tone, “ Come, come, be calm, m3’ little w^oman,” 
— words which, in her wild excitement, Adeline did not 
hear. The scene had changed ; Crevel, to use his own 
language, was master of the field. 


Cousin Bette. 


385 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

CONCLUSION OF THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF Cl^LESTIN 
CREVEL. 

The immensit}’ of the sum demanded had so startling 
an effect on Crevel that his lively emotion at beholding 
a beautiful woman at his feet in tears passed off. Be- 
sides, no matter how angelic and lovely a woman ma}" 
be, if she weeps her beauty disappears. The Madame 
Marneffes pretend to weep occasionally and allow a tear 
or two to glide down their cheeks ; but dissolve in tears 
and redden their eyes and nose ! — no, the}^ never com- 
mit such a fault as that. 

“ Come, come, my dear, be calm ! ” said Crevel, tak- 
ing her beautiful hands in his own and patting them. 
“ Wh}’ do 3’ou ask me for two hundred thousand 
francs? what do 3’ou want of them? who are the}’ for?” 

“ Don ’t ask me for an explanation,” she said ; “ give 
them to me. You will save the lives of three persons 
and your children’s honor.” 

“And do you believe, my little woman,” said Crevel, 
“ that there ’s a man in all Paris, who, at the request of 
a woman who is pretty nearly crazy, would go hunting, 
Aic et nunc, in a drawer, anywhere, for two hundred 
thousand francs supposed to be hiding there \ till she 
happens to want them? Is that your idea of life and 
business, my lady? Your mysterious beggars must be 
pretty far gone ; send them the sacraments, for nobody 
25 


386 


Cousin Bette. 


in Paris except its serene Highness the Bank of France, 
or the illustrious Nucingen, or misers in love with gold 
as other men are with women, can pull hundreds of 
thousands of francs out of a hiding-place on demand. 
The civil list, civil as it is, would ask 3’ou to call again 
to-morrow. Everybody makes the most of his mone}^ 
and turns it over and over as best he can. You are 
much mistaken, m3" dear angel, if you think it is 
the king, Louis-Philippe, who reigns over us, — he 
himself knows better than that. He knows, as we all 
do, that above the charter sits enthroned that sacred, 
venerable, solid, gracious, kindl3’, beautiful, noble, 
3’outhful, and all-powerful coin, — the five-franc piece. 
Now, m3^ adorable angel, mone3’ exacts interest; its 
whole business is to look out for interest. ‘ God of the 
Jews, thou rulest all,’ sa3's the great Racine. It is the 
everlasting allegor3’ of the golden calf. Men were stock- 
jobbers in the da3"s of Moses. It ’s Biblical. The golden 
calf was the first ledger. You don’t know everything in 
the rue Plumet, dear Adeline,” he continued. “The 
Egyptians loaned immense sums to the Hebrews and 
they chased the people of God, not for themselves, but 
for their capital.” Crevel looked at the baroness as 
if to say, “That’s witty, isn’t it?” “You don’t 
take into consideration men’s love for their breeches- 
pocket,” he continued. Excuse me. Now listen if 
3’ou can, and take in m3" argument. You want two hun- 
dred thousand francs? no one can give them without 
changing investments. Therefore, calculate. To get 
two hundred thousand francs in living money ^ that is 
in cash, one must sell out nearly seven hundred thou- 
sand francs’ worth of stock at three per cent. Even 


Cousin Bette. 


387 


then you can’t get the money for two days. That ’s the 
quickest possible time. Now before a man can be per- 
suaded to give up a fortune, — for it is a fortune to 
most people, two hundred thousand francs, — he ought 
to be told where it is going, and for what reason.” 

“ Dear Crevel, it concerns the life of two men, one of 
whom will die of grief and the other will kill himself. 
And also, it concerns me, — I am going mad, — am I 
not already so ? ” 

“ No, no,” he said, laying his hand upon her knee ; 
“ old Crevel has his price, now that you have deigned to 
think of him, my angel.” 

“ You once offered me a fortune,” she said, blushing 
and covering her face with her hands. 

“Ah, my little woman, but that was three years 
ago,” said Crevel. “You are more beautiful now than 
I have ever seen you,” he added, pressing her arm to 
his heart. “And so 3’ou’ve kept me in mind, dear 
creature ? I wish 3^011 had never played the prude, for 
that three hundred thousand francs 3’ou refused so 
proudl3' went into the pocket of another woman. I 
loved 3'ou then and I still love 3’ou ; but let us look back 
to three 3^ears ago. When I said to 3*ou, ‘ I shall have 
3'ou,’ what was my object? Vengeance on 3'our scoun- 
drel of a husband. Since then, my dear, he has had a 
treasure of a woman for his mistress, a jewel, a pearl, a 
sh’-boots, who was twent3^-three 3’ears old then, for she 
is twenty-six now. I felt it was better fun, more the 
thing, more Richelieu, more Louis XV., more Corsican, 
to deprive him of that charming creature, — who, b3^ the 
b3’, never even liked him, and has been for three 3^ears 
desperatel3’ in love with 3’our humble servant.” 


388 


Cousin Bette, 


So saj^ing, Crevel, releasing Madame Hulot’s hands, 
recovered position. He stuck his two thumbs in the arm- 
holes of his waistcoat, and flapped his torso with both 
elbows as though the}’ were wings, confident that he was 
making himself both desirable and delightful. He seemed 
to sa}’, “ Behold the man you formerly discarded.” 

So, my dear child, I am avenged and your husband 
knows it. I have categorically proved to him that he 
has been fooled, — what I call jocke3’ed. Madame 
Marneffe is my mistress, and when the Sieur Marneff'e 
dies she will be m3’ wife.” 

Madame Hulot looked fixedl}’ at Crevel, though her 
e3’es seemed dazed. 

“ Does Hector know that?” she said. 

“Yes, and he went back to her, and I allowed it,” an- 
swered Crevel, “because Marneffe insisted on being 
promoted to the head of his department. But she swore 
to me that our baron should be got rid of before long in 
a wa}’ to prevent his ever reappearing. And m3’ little 
duchess (for she is a duchess, that woman, honor bright) 
has kept her word. She now, to use her own witt}’ lan- 
guage, returns your Hector virtuous in perpetuit}’. The 
lesson has done him good, severe as it is ; he won’t run 
after actresses or well-bred women an}^ more. I call 
him radically cured ; he has been rinsed out like a tea- 
pot. If you had listened to old Crevel instead of mor- 
tifying him and turning him out of 3^our house, 3’ou 
might have had four hundred thousand francs ; for my 
revenge has cost me fully that. But I expect to get 
back the mone}" when Marneffe dies. That ’s the secret 
of my extravagance. I ’ve solved the problem of how 
to be a great lord cheaply.” 


Cousin Bette. 


389 


“ And you mean to give such a mother-in-law to your 
daughter ? ” cried Madame Hulot. 

“ You don’t know, Valerie, madame,” said Crevel, 
gravely, striking the attitude of his first manner. “ She 
is well-born, well-bred, and a lady who is held in the 
highest social estimation. Only yesterday" the vicar of 
our parish dined with her. We have just given — for 
she is very pious — a superb monstrance to the church. 
Oh ! she ’s clever, witty, delightfully educated, in fact, 
she has everything in her favor. As for me, dear Ade- 
line, I owe all I am to that charming woman ; she has 
quickened my mind and refined, as j^ou must have ob- 
served, my language ; she checks my little jokes and 
puts words and ideas into my head. I don’t say im- 
proper things an}" longer. There is a great change in 
me, as you must have seen. She has also roused my 
ambition. I intend to be a deputy and I sha’n’t make a 
mess of it either ; I shall consult my Egeria in every- 
thing. Great political characters — Numa Pompilius 
and our present illustrious prime minister — have all 
had their Sib3ds. Valerie receives dozens of deputies ; 
she is getting to be influential, and now that I am going 
to give her an elegant mansion and put her in a car- 
riage, she will become one of the occult queens of Paris. 
Ah ! a beautiful woman is a splendid engine. Many a 
time I ’ve thanked 3’ou for dismissing me.” 

“ It is enough to make one doubt the power of God,” 
said Adeline, whose indignation dried her tears. “ But 
no ! — divine justice must hover above that woman’s 
head.” 

“ You are ignorant of the world, my good lady,” said 
Crevel, deeply affronted. “ The world loves success ! 


390 


Cousin Bette, 


What does it care for j^our sublime virtue — whose price 
is two hundred thousand francs ! ” 

The words increased Madame Hulot’s nervous trem- 
bling. She saw that the ex-perfumer was determined 
to revenge himself upon her as he had upon her husband ; 
disgust rose in her throat like nausea, so that she could 
not speak. 

“ Money — always mone}" ! ” she said at last. 

“ I am greatly touched,” said Crevel, reminded by 
that word of the woman’s humiliation, “ to see you 
weeping at my feet. Perhaps you won’t believe me, but 
if I had the money here in mj^ pocket, it should be 
yours. Come, you want that sum — ” 

Hearing these words, big with two hundred thousand 
francs, Adeline forgot the man’s insults and fell into 
the trap of imaginary- success, which Crevel laid for her 
intending to worm out her secret and laugh over it with 
Valerie. 

Ah, I will do anything ! ” cried the unhappy woman. 
“ Monsieur, I will sell myself; I will become, if I must, 
another Valerie — ” 

“Difficult for 3’ou!” said Crevel. “Valerie is a 
triumph of her species. My little woman, a virtue of 
twenty-five 3’ears’ standing is never attractive — and 
yours seems to have grown rather mildewed. But I ’ll 
prove that I still love you; 3’ou shall have 3^our two 
hundred thousand francs.” 

Adeline seized Crevel’s hand and pressed it to her 
heart, unable to articulate a word, while tears of joy 
moistened her e^xlashes. 

“ Wait, wait, there are certain formalities. As for 
me, I ’m a man of the world, a good fellow, and with- 


Cousin Bette. 


391 


out prejudices ; I shall explain things plumpl}". You 
sa}" you wish to do as Valerie does, — very good. But 
that ’s not all that ’s necessary ; we must find some one, 
some Hulot, some capitalist, who would be as glad as 
I would have been three years ago to give three hun- 
dred thousand francs for the love of a woman as well- 
bred as — ’’ 

“ Silence, Monsieur Crevel ! ” said Madame Hulot, no 
longer disguising her feelings, and letting her shame 
overspread her face. My punishment is greater than 
my sin. My conscience, repressed by the iron hand 
of necessit}", now cries out to me that such sacrifices 
are impossible. But my pride has gone ; I cannot be 
indignant as I once was — I have lost the right — I 
have offered myself to you — I am a prostitute. Yes, 
I have soiled my soul, hitherto so pure, with a base 
purpose and — I am without excuse, I know it! — I 
deserve the insults 3’ou put upon me ! God’s will be 
done ! If he wills the death of two beings fit to enter 
his presence, let them die ; I will mourn them, I will 
pray for them I If he wills the degradation of our fam- 
ily, let us bow before the avenging sword and kiss it, 
for we are Christians. I know how to expiate this 
momentary shame which will torture me through all the 
coming years. It is no longer Madame Hulot who 
speaks to 3^ou, it is the poor, the humble sinner, the 
Christian woman whose heart from henceforth holds one 
feeling onl}", — repentance ; the last of women and the 
first of penitents through the magnitude of her evil deed. 
You are the means of my return to reason ; through you 
the voice of God has spoken within me ; I thank you — ’* 

She trembled with a nervous movement ' which, from 


392 


Couain Bette, 


that moment, never left her. Her gentle voice con- 
trasted with the feverish tones in which she had hitherto 
spoken ; the blood forsook her cheeks ; she grew pallid 
and her eyes were dr3’. 

“ I pla^^ed my part ill,” she said, looking at Crevel 
as the martyrs may have looked at the proconsul. 
“ True love, the sacred and devoted love of a woman, 
has other pleasures than those that are sold in the mar- 
ket of prostitution. But wh}^ do I say these things ? ” 
she exclaimed, checking herself, making, as she did so, 
one step onward in the path of perfection, — “the}’ 
sound like sarcasm, and God knows I do not mean that ; 
forgive me if they seem so — perhaps it is mj’self the}’ 
wound, not others.” 

The majesty of virtue, its celestial light, had swept 
away the fleeting impurity of the woman who, resplen- 
dent in the sacred beauty that belonged to her, seemed, 
even in Crevel’s eyes, ennobled. At this moment she 
was like those figures of Religion leaning on a cross 
which the old Venetians loved to i^aint; she exhibited 
to the eye the grandeur of her sorrows, and of the Cath- 
olic Church, to which she flew for refuge like a wounded 
dove. Ci'evel was awed and overcome. 

“ Madame, I am yours without conditions,” he said, 
yielding to an impulse of generosity. “ I will look into 
the matter, and — what is it you want ? — the impossible ? 
Well, you shall have it. I will deposit my securities at 
the bank, and in two hours I will bring you the mone}\” 

“ My God ! a miracle !” cried the poor woman, fall- 
ing on her knees. 

She said a prayer with such fervor that the tears were 
in Crevel’s eyes as she rose from her knees. 


Cousin Bette. 


393 


“ Be my friend,” she said to him. “ You have a soul 
above your conduct or your words. God gave j’ou that 
soul. Your ideas and your passions are only of this 
world. Oh, I will love jou ! ” she cried, with an an- 
gelic ardor that contrasted strangely with her paltry 
little efforts at coquetry. 

“ Don’t tremble so,” said Crevel. 

“ Do I tremble?” she said, not j’et aware of the in- 
firmity that had come upon her so suddenly. 

‘ ‘ Wh}", yes ! see ! ” he exclaimed, taking her arm and 
showing her how it twitched. “ Madame,” he said, re- 
spectfull}’, “be calm, I entreat 3’ou; I will go straight 
to the bank — ” 

“ And return quickly. Remember, dear friend,” she 
added, betraying her secret, “ I must prevent m3" uncle 
Fischer’s suicide ; he is compromised through m3* hus- 
band. There, I have told 3*ou all. See what trust I 
place in 3*ou. Besides, if we are not in time, — I know 
the marshal ; he is the soul of honor ; he would die of 
the disgrace.” 

“I go,” said Crevel, kissing her hand. “But what 
has that poor Hulot done ? ” 

“ He has robbed the State ! ” 

“ Good God ! I will hurry. Madame, I understand 
3*ou ; I respect 3'ou.” 

Crevel bent his knee and kissed the hem of her dress ; 
then he left the room, saying, “ Expect me soon.” 

Unhappily, between the rue Plumet and his own 
house, where he was to go for his securities, Crevel 
passed through the rue Vanneau, and he could not re- 
sist the desire to see his little duchess. His ,face was 
still troubled as he entered the room where Valerie’s 


394 


Cousin Bette, 


maid was dressing her hair. The siren examined Cre- 
vel in the glass, and was immediately, like all women 
of her kind, displeased to see that he was under some 
strong emotion of which she was not the cause. 

“ What is the matter, my hero?” she said. “ Is that 
the way to visit your little duchess. Before long you 
won’t think me a duchess at all, monsieur.” 

Crevel answered by a gloomy smile, and looked at 
Reine. 

“ Reine, my dear, that will do for to-day. I ’ll finish 
my hair myself. Bring me a morning-gown.” 

Reine, whose face was pitted with small-pox like a 
colander, and who seemed to have been born expressly 
to be Valerie’s maid, smiled at her mistress and brought 
the garment. Valerie took off her peignoir and slipped 
into the loose gown like an adder coiling into a tuft of 
grass. 

“Madame is not at home to any one?” 

“What a question ! ” said Valefie. “Now, my old man, 
what is it ? Have the Left Bank shares gone down ? ” 

“ No.” 

“Has some one outbid you on the house?” 

“ No.” 

“You think you are not the father of our little 
Crevel?” 

“ Nonsense.” 

“ Then I can’t guess what it is. If I have got to 
pull a friend’s troubles out of him, just as you pull 
corks out of champagne bottles, I give up. Go away ; 
you annoy me.” 

“Oh, it is nothing, — only I must get two hundred 
thousand francs within an hour.” 


Cousin Bette, 


395 


“ You can get them easily. I have n’t used the fifty 
thousand we got through the Hulot indictment, and I 
can easily borrow fifty thousand more from Henri.” 

“ Henri ! always Henri ! ” growled Crevel. 

“ Do you think, my budding Machiavelli, that I shall 
dismiss Henri? Does France disband her navy? Henri ! 
he is a dagger in a sheath hanging on a nail. That fel- 
low,” she cried, “ helps me to find out if you love me, 
— and you don’t love me this morning.” 

“Not love you, Valerie!” exclaimed Crevel. “I 
love you better than a million ! ” 

* “ That is not enough,” she said, springing on his 
knee, and twining both arms around his neck; “I 
must be loved like ten millions, — like all the gold on 
earth, and more too. Henri could n’t be with me five 
minutes without telling all that was in his heart. Come, 
what ’s the matter, my old darling ? Unpack your 
troubles. Tell all, and quickl}^ too, to j’our little pet.” 
And she wafted her hair lightly across his face as she 
pinched his nose. “ How can a man have such a nose 
as that,” she cried, “ and keep a secret from his Va-va- 
[the nose went to the right] le-le- [to the left] ri-rie 
[the nose recovered position]?” 

“Well, I have just seen — ” Crevel stopped and 
looked at Madame Marneffe. “Valerie, my treasure, 
you promise me, on your honor, not to repeat a word 
of what I tell you?” 

“ Honor bright, mayor ! ” she said. “ See ! I raise 
my hand — and my foot ! ” And she pirouetted in a 
way to drive Crevel beside himself from his head to his 
heels. ' 

“ I have just seen virtue in despair.” 


396 


Cousin Bette, 


“ TFAois virtuous? and what is despair?” she cried, 
nodding her head and crossing her arms a la Napoleon. 

“I am speaking of poor Madame Hulot; she wants 
two hundred thousand francs. If she can’t get them 
the old marshal and her uncle Fischer will blow their 
brains out ; and as you are partly the cause of it, my 
little duchess, I am going to repair damages. She is a 
good women, a saint, — I know her, she ’ll pay me back.” 

At the name of Hulot and the mention of the money, 
Valerie’s eyes emitted a look through their long lashes 
like the flash of a cannon through its smoke. 

“ What has the old woman done to make you pity 
her ? Has she shown you her — her — religion ? ” 

‘‘ Don’t make fun of her, dearest, she is a noble, pious, 
saintly woman, worthy of all respect.” 

“And I am not!” said Valerie, with a dangerous 
look. 

“ I did n’t say that,” answered Crevel, comprehending 
how the praise of virtue must stab Madame Marneffe. 

“I’m pious too,” said Valerie, moving away from 
Crevel and sitting down in an armchair ; “ but I don’t 
make a trade of my religion ; I hide in a corner when I 
go to church.” 

She was silent and paid no further attention to Crevel. 
Made excessively uneasy, that worthy planted himself 
in front of her chair, and beheld her lost in the painful 
thoughts he had so foolishly evoked. 

“ Valerie, my little angel I ” 

No answer. A problematical tear was furtively wiped 
away. 

“ One word, my pet.” 

“ Monsieur 1 ” 


Cousin Bette, 


397 


“ What are you thinking of ? ” 

“ Oh, Monsieur Crevel, I am thinking of the day of 
my first communion. I was beautiful ! I was pure ! I 
was innocent, immaculate ! Ah ! if any one had gone to 
my mother then and said, ‘Your daughter wiU be a 
profiigate, she will deceive her husband, she will sell 
herself to Crevel to betra}^ Hulot, two wicked old men, 
— horrors ! she would have died before the end of the 
speech, — she loved me so.” 

“ Be calm.” 

“ You don’t know how one must love a man before we 
can silence the remorse that wrings the heart of an 
adulteress. I am sorry Reine is not here ; she could 
tell you that she found me this morning praying to God 
with tears in my eyes. I never mock at religion, Mon- 
sieur Crevel ; did you ever hear me sa}^ one disrespectful 
word on that subject? ” 

Crevel made a gesture of approbation. 

“ I won’t allow them to be said before me. I scoff* at 
much, — at kings, judges, marriage, love, 3"oung girls, 
old men ; but religion, the church, God, never ! I stop 
there. I know I do evil ; I know I am risking my sal- 
vation for you, and yet you doubt my love — ” 

Crevel clasped his hands. 

“Ah, you need to look into my heart and measure 
the strength of my convictions before you can realize 
what I have sacrificed for you. I feel within me the 
soul of the Magdalen ; see how I surround myself with 
priests, what gifts I make to the altar! My mother 
brought me up in the Catholic faith — I know God. It 
is to us sinners that he speaks in terrifying tones.” 
Valerie wiped away two tears which were rolling 


398 


Cousin Bette. 


down her cheeks. Crevel was dismayed ; Madame Mar- 
neffe rose, wildly excited. 

“ My treasure, be calm. You frighten me.” 

She fell on her knees. 

‘‘My God!” she cried, clasping her hands, “I am 
not a bad woman. Deign to seek thy lost lamb, afflict 
her, beat her with many stripes, take her from the paths 
of wickedness and adultery, — gladly will she hide in 
thy bosom, happy in returning to the fold.” 

She rose from her knees, looked at Crevel ; the man 
trembled at her glazed eyes. 

“ And then, oh, Crevel I I am frightened sometimes. 
God’s justice falls in this world as well as in that to 
come. What can I hope from God? Vengeance is his 
uix>n the guilty, and who knows when and where it may 
fall ? All misfortunes which fools are unable to explain 
are expiations. That is whaf my mother told me on her 
dying bed, speaking of old age. Oh I if I lost you,” she 
cried, seizing Crevel and clasping him with savage en- 
ergy, “ what would become of me? I should die.” 

Madame Marneffe released Crevel and once more 
knelt before her chair, joined her hands, and, in that 
ravishing attitude, she said with incredible unction the 
following prayer : — 

“ And you, Saint Valerie, my protectress, why do 
you not oftener visit the pillow of her who was sacredly 
confided to your care ? Oh, come to-night as 3’ou have 
come this morning ! Inspire me with holy thoughts ; 
help me to abandon evil wa^^s, — to renounce, like Mag- 
dalen, deceitful joys, the pomps of life, and — him — 
I love.” 

“ My darling I ” cried CreveL 


Cousin Bette, 


399 


“No longer your darling,” she said, turning away 
with the pride of virtue, her eyes moist with tears, dig- 
nified, cold, almost indifierent. “ Leave me,” she said ; 
“I know my duty, — I must belong only to my hus- 
band. He is dying, and yet how do I treat him ? I 
have deceived him at the very verge of his grave. He 
thinks your son is his. I will tell him the truth ; I will 
begin by seeking his pardon before I ask that of God. 
Monsieur Crevel, we must part. Farewell,” she said, 
standing erect and offering him an icy hand ; “ farewell, 
my friend, may we meet in a better world. You owe 
me pleasures, — criminal alas ! — but now I need — yes 
I must have — your esteem.” 

Crevel melted into tears. 

“Oh! you old ninny,’' she cried, with an infernal 
burst of laughter, “ I am showing you how pious women 
go to work to get two hundred thousand francs out of 
you. And 3 ’ou, who talk about Richelieu, the original 
of Lovelace, you let yourself be taken in by such chaff 
as that I I could have got two hundred thousand francs 
out of 3 ’ou then if I had kept on, you old fool. Take 
care of your money in future. If you have more than 
you want, it belongs to me. If j^ou give two sous to 
that respectable old woman who plays the pious because 
she is fifty-seven years old, I '11 never see you again, and 
you can take her in place of me. I know you will 
come back to me the next day sore all over from her 
angular charms.” 

“It is true,” said Crevel, “that two 'hundred thou- 
sand francs is a good deal of money.” 

“Those pious women have good appetites. They sell 
their sermons for more than we can get for the only 


400 


Cousin Bette, 


sure thing on earth, and that is pleasure. You ought 
to be ashamed of yourself, old man, you who are not 
given to giving, for you never gave me two hundred 
thousand francs j'et.” 

“Yes, I have,” said Crevel; “the little house has 
cost more than that.” 

“ So you are worth four hundred thousand, are you? ” 
she said, with a reflective air. 

“ No.” 

“Well, if 3’ou lend that old horror two hundred thou- 
sand francs on my house, it will be a crime of leze- 
Valerie.” 

“ But just listen to me.” 

“ If you give that money to some stupid philanthropic 
invention 3’ou ’ll be thought'a man of ideas,” she said, 
growing animated, “and I shall be the first to advise 
you to do so, because 3’ou are such an innocent 3’ou 
could never write political books and make a reputation 
— 3"ou have n’t st3de enough ! But 3’ou might pose like 
others in the same case, who gild their name with gloiy 
by sticking it at the head of some social, moral, national, 
or universal affair — benevolence is out of the question, 
it is poor style just now ; liberated convicts (about whom 
they made more fuss than over the honest poor devils) 
have had their da3^ I would like to see 3’ou emplo3' 
that two hundred thousand francs on something more 
important, something realty useful. If the3" were to call 
you a second Montyon should n’t I be proud ! But to 
throw two hundred thousand francs into a basin of hoty’- 
water and lend them to a sanctimonious old woman de- 
serted by her husband, for any reason, I don’t care what, 
is an absolute stupidity which, in this 3’ear of grace. 


Cousin Bette, 


401 


\ 


could germinate only in the skull of an ex-perfumer! 
It smells of the counter ! You would n’t dare look at 
3’our face in the glass the next day. Go and put your 
money in the Sinking Fund, and don’t come here again 
without the receipt for it. Go — at once — quick ! ” 

She pushed Crevel by the shoulders out of the room, 
noticing that his natural avarice had once more blos- 
somed on his face. When the outer door was closed, 
she said aloud, “ There ’s Lisbeth avenged and doubly 
avenged. What a pity she has gone, we should have 
had such fun over it ! Ha, ha ! so the old woman wants 
to take the bread out of my mouth! I’ll shake her 
well for that ! ” 


26 


402 


Cousin Bette. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A BRIEF DUEL BETWEEN MaR^CHAL HuLOT, CoMTE DE 

Forzheim, and His Excellency Monseigneur le 
Mar^chal Cottin, Prince de Wissembourg, Due 
d’Orfano, minister of war. 

Mar^chal Hulot, considering himself obliged to live 
in a manner becoming to the highest military" dignity, 
occupied a fine house in the rue du Mont-Parnasse, a 
street which contains tw(^ or three princely mansions. 
Though he hired the whole house he occupied only the 
ground-fioor. When Lisbeth came to live with him she 
proposed to sub-let the first fioor, which, she said, would 
pay the rent of the whole house and the count would 
get his own apartment for next to nothing ; but the old 
soldier refused. For the last few months many anxious 
thoughts had passed through his mind. He had guessed 
his sister-in-law’s poverty and suspected the evils which 
led to it, without being able to detect their cause. The 
old man, by nature serene and joyous, had of late grown 
taciturn and anxious ; he believed that his house might 
some day be a refuge for the baroness and her daughter, 
and he was keeping the first floor of it for them. The 
smallness of his fortune was so well known that the 
minister of war, the Prince de Wissembourg, had forced 
his old comrade to accept an indemnity of equipment. 
Hulot employed the money in furnishing the ground- 
floor, where all was in keeping with his rank ; for he 


Cousin Bette. 


403 


did not choose, he said, to carrj" a marshal’s baton afoot. 
The house had belonged, under the empire, to a senator ; 
the salons on the ground-floor, decorated with great 
magnificence in white and gold with bas-reliefs, were in 
good preseiwation. The marshal added fine old furni- 
ture of the same period. In the coach-house he kept a 
carriage, with batons painted on the panels in saltire, 
and hired horses whenever he desired to drive in state 
either to the ministry, or the palace, or to any public 
ceremon}' or fete. For the last thirty 3 *ears an old 
soldier, now sixty years old, had been his valet, and the 
man’s sister was cook to the establishment ; this econo- 
mical mode of living enabled the count to lay b}^ some 
ten thousand francs towards the little fortune he meant 
to leave Hortense. The old man went eveiy day on 
foot from the rue du Mont-Parnasse to the rue Plumet. 
All the old Invalides ranged themselves in line and 
saluted him as he passed ; and the marshal rewarded 
them with a friendty smile. 

“ Wh}^ do you salute the like of him?” said a young 
workman, one day to an old captain of the Invalides. 

“I’ll tell you, you j’oung scamp,” said the old offi- 
cer. The youth struck an attitude of resignation to his 
garrulity. 

“ In 1809,” continued the Invalide, “ we were cover- 
ing the flank of the Grand Army under command of the 
Emperor in person, on the march to Vienna. We came 
to a bridge defended by a triple battery of cannon, three 
redoubts, as it were, placed one above the other on the 
rocks and commanding the bridge. We were under the 
orders of Marechal Massena. I, here present, was then 
colonel of the grenadiers of the Guard, and I marched 


404 


Cousin Bette, 


with the line. Our columns were on one side of the 
river, the batteries on the other. Three times we at- 
tempted the bridge, three times the columns balked. 
‘ Send for Hulot ! ’ cried Massena ; ‘ none but he and 
his men can swallow that morsel!’ We were brought 
up. The last general who had tried and failed stopped 
Hulot, under fire, clogging the wa}^ to tell him how 
to manage. ‘ I don’t want advice, but the room to 
pass,’ said the general, springing upon the bridge at 
the head of his column — r-r-rah! and thirty cannon 
pelted us ! — ” 

“ Thunder ! ” cried the workman, “ it must have made 
cripples of a good many of you 1 ” 

“ If you had heard him s^y those words, tranquilly, as I 
did, my little man, you ’d salute him to the ground. The 
affair never made the noise of the bridge at Areola, but 
it was n’t less fine. We followed Hulot, on the run, into 
the batteries I — Honor to those who stayed there,” 
said the veteran, lifting his hat. “ The kaiserlicks 
were stunned by the blow, and that ’s why the Emperor 
made the old man you saw count; he honored us all 
in our chief, and the present government has done well 
to make him marshal of France.” 

“ Long live the marshal I ” cried the workman. 

“No use shouting, my lad; he can’t hear you; 
those cannons deafened him 1 ” 

This anecdote will give an idea of the respect m 
which the old army held Marechal Hulot, whose re- 
publican opinions won, besides, the popular sympathies 
of his neighborhood. 

The sorrow which now entered that pure and calm 
and noble soul was grievous to behold. Madame Hulot 


Cousin Bette. 


405 


endeavored to deceive him, and hid the full truth as 
best she could with her womanly tact. During this 
disastrous morning the marshal, who, like all old men, 
slept little, had heard from Lisbeth certain facts about 
his brother. We may well believe that the old maid 
was delighted to have him draw from her a confi- 
dence she had been longing to give since her arrival 
in his house ; it strengthened the prospects of her own 
marriage. 

“ Your brother is incorrigible ! ” said Lisbeth, shout- 
ing into the marshal’s best ear. 

The sharp, clear voice of the Lorraine peasant-woman 
enabled her to converse with the old man. She strained 
her lungs, never over-strong, in the effort to show her 
future husband that he would never be deaf with her. 

“ To keep three mistresses,” exclaimed the marshal, 
“ while he had an Adeline ! Poor Adeline ! ” 

“ If you would take my advice,” said Lisbeth, “3'ou 
would use your influence with the Prince de Wissem- 
bourg to obtain some honorable situation for my cousin 
Adeline. She needs it ; the baron’s salary is mortgaged 
for three years.” 

“ I will go and see him at once,” he replied. “ I will 
find out what he thinks of my brother, and ask him to 
use his influence for m3’ sister. Where could we find a 
suitable empWment for her? ” 

“ A number of charitable ladies have formed an as- 
sociation for benevolent works under the auspices of the 
archbishop. They want some visitors, whom they em- 
ploy at suitable salaries, to ascertain the real needs of 
the applicants for relief. Such work would just suit my 
dear Adeline ; her heart would be in it.” 


406 


Cousin Bette, 


“Send for the horses!” said the marshal, “I will 
dress and go — to Neuilly, if necessary.” 

“ How he loves her I ” thought Bette. “ Is she to be 
ever in my way ? ” 

Lisbeth was already domineering over the household, 
— but out of sight of the marshal. She had taken to 
herself a waiting- woman, and displayed all the med- 
dlesomeness of an old maid in spying about her and 
demanding an account of expenditures, in the inter- 
ests, she said, of the dear marshal. She was quite as 
republican as he was ; pleasing him thus on his demo- 
cratic side, and flattering him in other ways with amaz- 
ing ability. For the last two weeks the old man, who 
now fared better and was looked after by his new house- 
keeper as a child by its mother, had come to regard 
Bette as in part the realization of his wishes. 

“ My dear mar^chal,” she said, accompanying him to 
the portico when the carriage came to the door, “ do 
pray pull up the windows, don’t sit in a draught, — for 
m3’ sake ! ” 

The Marechal, a true old bachelor, who had never 
been petted in his life, smiled at her, although his heart 
was aching. 

At the same moment Baron Hulot was also making 
his way to the cabinet of the Mar4chal Prince de Wis- 
sembourg, who had sent for him. Though there was 
nothing extraordinary in the fact that the minister 
should send for one of his directors, Hulot’s con- 
science was so uneasy that he fancied he saw some- 
thing cold and forbidding in the face of Mitouflet, the 
messenger. 

“Mitouflet, how is the prince?” he said, closing 


Cousin Bette. 


407 


his office door and overtaking the clerk, who had 
walked on. 

“ He must have a crow to pick with you, Monsieur Ic 
baron,” said Mitouflet, “ for his voice and eyes and face 
are — tempestuous.” 

Hulot became livid, and was silent. He crossed the 
antechamber and the salons, and reached the cabinet 
with a beating heart. The Marechal, now seventy years 
of age, with perfectly white hair and a brown, leathery 
face, like many old men of his age, was distinguished by a 
noble brow of such amplitude that the imagination could 
see a whole battle-field written out upon it. Beneath 
this broad cupola, covered with snow, glittered two eyes 
of Napoleonic blue, ordinarily sad, now full of bitter 
memories and regrets, and always shaded by the pro- 
jecting arch of his e3’ebrows, which were very promi- 
nent. This rival of Bernadette had hoped to ascend 
a throne. His e3"es flashed lightning when some noble 
sentiment filled his soul ; his voice, usually hollow, 
grew strident at such times. When angry, the prince 
fell back into the habits of the camp, and his lan- 
guage became that of sub-lieutenant Cottin ; nothing 
restrained him. On entering the room Hulot d’Ervy be- 
held the old lion standing before the fireplace, with his 
hair tangled like a mane, his eyebrows contracted, his 
shoulders resting on the mantle-shelf, and his thoughts 
apparently absent. 

“At 3’our orders, prince,” said Hulot, attempting an 
easy air. 

The marshal looked fixedly at the director without 
saying a word during the time it took 'Hulot to come 
from the doorwa3' to within a few feet of him. This 


408 


Cousin Bette, 


leaden look was like the eye of God. The baron could 
not endure it ; he lowered his own eyes confusedly. 
“He knows all!” thought he. 

“Does 3 'our conscience warn you?” demanded the 
marshal, in a stern and hollow voice. 

“ It warns me, prince, that I have probablj^ done 
wrong to order those raids in Algeria without consult- 
ing you. At my age, and with my tastes, I am without 
fortune, after a service of fort 3 ^-five years. You know 
the principles of the four hundred Elected of France. 
Those gentlemen are envious of all positions ; the^’ cut 
down the salaries of everybody’, even the ministers, as 
3 ’ou know. Useless to ask them to help an old sol- 
dier out of his difficulties. What can 3 ’ou expect of 
men who paj" their own civil service as thejr do ; who 
give thirty sous a day to the Toulon laborers, when 
no man can support a famil}^ on less than forty ; men 
who never reflect on the iniquity of paying clerks six 
hundred to a thousand or twelve hundred francs a 
3 ^ear to do their work ; and who covet our places for 
themselves if the salaries amount to forty’ thousand ? — 
fellows, in short, who refuse to the crown crown-prop- 
erty, confiscated to the crown in 1830, when it was 
asked of them for a prince in distress I If y’ou had no 
fortune, like my brother, prince, they would let you 
vegetate on a paltry salary’, without remembering that 
you saved the Grand Army (and I with you) in the 
swamps of Poland.” 

“ You have robbed the State I ” said the marshal. 
“ You are in danger of a criminal prosecution ! You 
are no better than a cashier who steals from a bank ! 
and you dare to treat the matter with such levity ? ” 


Cousin Bette. 


409 


“ But what a difference, monseigneur ! ” cried Hulot. 
“ Did I put my hands on any mone}’ that was entrusted 
to me?” 

“ When a man commits such infamies,” said the 
marshal, “ he is doubly guilty. You have shamefully 
compromised the administration, which up to this time 
has been the cleanest in Europe ; and 3*011 did it, mon- 
sieur, for two hundred thousand francs and a wanton ! ” 
continued the marshal, in a terrible voice. “ You are a 
councillor of state ; but the poor soldier who sells the 
property of his regiment is put to death ! Colonel Poii- 
tin, of the Second Lancers, told me a case in point : One 
of his men at Saverne loved an Alsatian woman who 
wanted a shawl ; she made such a fuss that the poor 
devil, on the point of being promoted sergeant-major 
after twenty 3*ears’ service, — a man who was an honor 
to the service, — sold some propert}* belonging to the 
regiment to get the shawl. Do 3*ou know what he did, 
Baron Hulot? He powdered the glass of his window 
and swallowed it, and died in eleven hours in the hos- 
pital. Endeavor, yourself, to die of an apoplex3*, if you 
wish to save 3*our honor — ” 

Hulot looked at the old warrior with a haggard eye. 
The marshal, recognizing a coward in that glance, 
flushed red, and his e3*es gleamed. 

“ Do not desert me ! ” stammered Hulot. 

At this moment Marechal Hulot, hearing that his 
brother and the minister were alone together, thought 
himself free to enter. With the directness of deaf per- 
sons, he went straight up to the prince. 

“Oh!” cried the latter, “I know what 3’ou have 
come for, old friend ; but it is useless ! ” 


410 


Cousin Bette. 


“Useless? ” repeated Marechal Hulot, who heard only 
that one word. 

“ Yes. You have come to speak about 3"Our brother ; 
but do 3^ou know what 3"our brother is ? ” 

‘‘My brother? ” asked the deaf man. 

“ He is a villain, a damned scoundrel, unworthy of 
you ! ” 

The Marechal’s anger flashed from his e3"es in a light- 
ning glance which, like that of Napoleon, blasted the 
brains and the wills of those about him. 

“You lie, Cottin ! ” replied the other marshal, turning 
livid. “ Cast away 3'our rank as I cast mine ! — I am at 
3"Our orders.” — 

The prince went straight to his old comrade, looked 
at him fixedly, and said in his ear as he grasped his 
hand, “Are you a man? ” 

“ You shall see that I am.” 

“Then, command yourself! you have to bear the 
worst misfortune that could befall 3^ou.” 

The prince turned to the table, took up a written 
report, and gave it to the old man saying, “ Read that ! ” 

Comte Forzheim read the following letter, which ac- 
companied the report : — 


[Confidential.] 


To His Excellency the President 
of the Council : 


Algiers, . 

My dear Prince, — We are saddled with an extremely 
unpleasant business, as you will see from the accompanying 
report. 

To sum it up, — Baron Hulot d’Ervy has sent one of his 
uncles to the province of O for certain swindling transac- 


Cousin Bette, 


411 


tions in the matter of grain and forage, and has used his 
office to appoint a storekeeper named Chardin, who plays 
into their hands. This storekeeper made a confession to shift 
the blame from his own shoulders, and has ended by running 
away. The procureur du roi, not aware that any but subal- 
terns were concerned, has followed the case up harshly; 
Johann Fischer, your director’s uncle, was arrested on a 
criminal charge and committed suicide in prison. 

The matter would have ended there if Fischer, evidently 
an honest man deceived by his nephew and the storekeeper, 
had not been so rash as to write to Baron Hulot. This letter 
fell into the hands of the procureur and so amazed him that 
he brought it to me. It would be a terrible blow to the ad- 
ministration to be forced to arrest and convict a councillor 
of state and a director in the War office, a man who has, more- 
over, done good and loyal service — for the fact is, he saved 
us all after B^resina by reorganizing the administration of 
the army — I therefore requested the procureur to send me 
the papers; which I herewith refer to you. 

Must we let the matter take its course ? Or, the actual 
criminal being dead, shall w'e smother the matter by con- 
victing the storekeeper in default? 

The procureur du roi is willing that the matter be left to 
your management. Baron Hulot d’Ervy is domiciled in 
Paris, and the charge would therefore be made legally in your 
courts. We take this rather equivocal means to rid ourselves, 
momentarily, of the difficulty. 

One thing more, my dear Marechal ; I must beg of you to 
act promptly. A great deal is being said already about this 
wretched business, which will do us still more harm if the 
guilt of the chief criminal (now known only to the procureur 
duroi^ ihQjuge d' instruction^ the prosecutor-general and my- 
self) gets abroad. 

Here the paper fell from the marshal’s fingers. He 
looked at his brother and saw that it was useless to read 


412 


Cousin Bette, 


the report; but he searched for Johann Fischer^s letter 
and, having read it, gave it to the baron. 

Prison at O . j 

Nephew, when you read these words I shall not be living. 
Do not be uneasy ; no proofs can be found against you. I 
dead, and your Jesuit of a storekeeper out of the way, the 
charges fall to the ground. The thought of our dear Adeline, 
who owes her happiness to you, makes death sweet to me. 
You need not send the two hundred thousand francs. 
Farewell. 

This letter will reach you by a man on whose fidelity I can 
rely. 

^ Johann Fischer. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Marechal Hulot with touch- 
ing dignity to the Prince de Wissembourg. “How 
much did you take ? ” he asked, turning with severity to 
his brother. 

“ Two hundred thousand francs.” 

“ My dear friend,” said the marshal, addressing the 
minister, “ you shall have that sum in less than forty- 
eight hours. It shall never be said that a man bearing 
the name of Hulot has wronged the State to the value 
of a penny.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” said the prince ; “ I know where 
the money is, and I shall recover it. — Write j'Our res- 
ignation, and ask to be retired,” he continued, address- 
ing the baron and flinging a sheet of foolscap paper 
towards the end of the table at which the latter was sit- 
ting, his legs shaking under him. “ It would bring shame 
upon all of us if we should prosecute you ; I have ob- 
tained permission from the Council of Ministers to act 
as I am now doing. Since you choose to accept a life 


Cousin Bette. 


413 


without honor, without my respect, a degraded life, you 
shall have the retirement which is your due. But — see 
that men forget you.” 

The minister rang the bell. 

“ Is the sub-director Marneffe waiting?’’ 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ Let hiih come in.” 

“You and your wife,” said the prince, as Marneffe 
appeared, “ have deliberately ruined Baron Hulot 
d’Erv}", here present.” 

“ Monsieur le prince, we are poor people ; I have 
only my salary to live upon : I have two children to 
support, the j’oungest of whom has been foisted upon 
me by Baron Hulot.” 

“What a vile face!” remarked the prince to the 
marshal. “ Enough of your Sganarelle speeches,” he 
said to Marneffe. “ You will pay back those two hun- 
dred thousand francs, or 3'Ou will go to Algeria.” 

“ But, Monsieur le prince, you don’t know my wife ; 
she has squandered them all. Monsieur le baron in- 
vited six persons to dinner every da}". It cost fifty 
thousand francs a year to keep the house.” 

“ Go ! ” said the prince, in that terrible voice which 
sounded the charge in battle ; “you will receive notice 
of your removal to Algiers in two hours. Go ! ” 

“I prefer to give in my resignation,” said Marneffe, 
insolently. “It is a little too much to be what I am 
and defeated into the bargain — I shall not allow that.” 

And he left the room. 

“ An impudent fellow ! ” said the prince. 

Marechal Hulot, who during this scene had remained 
standing, erect, motionless, and pale as a lifeless body, 


414 


Cousin Bette. 


silently watching his brother, now went up to the prince 
and took his hand, repeating: “In forty-eight hours 
the material harm shall be repaired, but — our honor! 
Farewell, Marechal ! the last blow kills. Yes, I shall 
die,” he said in his old friend’s ear. 

“What the devil did you come here for?” replied 
the prince, deeply moved. 

“I came on behalf of his wife,” replied the count, 
“ she is without means of support ; and now — ” 

“ He will have his pension.” 

“ It is mortgaged.” 

“ The curse is on him IJl’ cried the prince, with a ges- 
ture of disgust. “What philter have you swallowed 
to let those women destroy' you body and mind?” he 
demanded, turning to the baron. “How could you, 
you who know the minute exactitude with which the 
French administration puts everything into written 
words, consumes reams of paper to prove the where- 
abouts of every farthing, 3’ou who were always com- 
plaining that so many signatures had to be given for 
mere nothings, — to release a soldier, to buy curry- 
combs, — how could you have expected to hide your 
thefts for any length of time? Did you forget the 
newspapers, and the men who would have liked to steal 
in your place ? And all for women ! for women who rob 
you of your common sense, who pull the wool over your 
eyes — or you are differently constituted from other men. 
You ought to have left the government when 3’ou 
felt yourself no longer a man, only a temperament! 
You have added folly to crime and you will end — I 
will not tell you where — ” 

“ Promise that you will take care of her, Cottin,” 


Cousin Bette, 415 

said the marshal, not hearing what the other said and 
thinking only of his sister-in-law. 

“ Don’t doubt it ! ” said the minister. 

“I thank you — Farewell! Come!” he said, 
sternly, to his brother. 

The prince looked with an eye that was apparently 
calm at the two brothers, so different in attitude, in 
conformation, and in character, — the brave man and 
the coward ; the chaste man and the voluptuary ; the 
man of honor and the peculator, — and he said to him- 
self: “That coward does not dare to die, but death 
sits already on the shoulders of my poor upright 
Hulot.” 

He threw himself into his armchair and went back 
to the perusal of despatches from Africa, with a gesture 
that showed at once the sang-froid of a great captain 
and the profound pity the sight of a battlefield excites. 
There is nothing more truly humane in reality than sol- 
diers, rough as the}^ seem, to whom the habit of war 
has given that icy will so necessary in action. 

On the morrow certain newspapers contained, under 
different headings, the following articles : — 

“ M. le Baron Hulot d’Ervy has asked to be retired. The 
troubles in the commissariat department of the administration 
in Algiers have influenced his determination. On learning of 
the wrongs committed by two functionaries in whom he had 
placed great confidence he was seized with paralysis in the 
cabinet of the minister. 

“ M. Hulot d’Ervy, brother of Marechal Hulot, has seen 
forty-five years’ service. His resignation is much regretted 
by all who knowM. Hulot, whose personal qualities equal his 
administrative talents. His devotion to the country, as shown 


41G 


Cousin Bette. 


by his services in the Imperial Guard at Varsovie, and the 
marvellous energy which enabled him to organize the differ- 
ent services of the army improvised by Napoleon in 1815, 
can never be forgotten. 

“ Another of the glories of the Napoleonic era leaves the 
scene. Since 1830 M. le Baron Hulot has been one of the 
most important members in the Council of State and the 
War department.” 

“ Algiers. — The affair in the commissariat department, 
to w^hich some newspapers have given a ridiculous promi- 
nence, has ended by the death of the chief culprit, Johann 
Wisch, who killed himself in prison. His accomplice es- 
caped; but judgment will be passed upon him by default, 

“ Wisch, formerly commissary to the Grand Army, was an 
honest man, greatly esteemed. He was unable to bear the 
idea of having been duped by Chardin, the storekeeper, who 
escaped.” 

Among the local news of Paris the following appeared 
in various journals : — 

“ M. le Marechal minister of War, hastening to put an 
end to abuses said to exist in the administration of the gov- 
ernment in Algiers, has determined to create a subsistence 
bureau in Africa. It is said that Monsieur Marneffe, at pres- 
ent sub-director at the ministry of War, wdll be head of this 
new department.” 

“The appointment of a successor to Baron Hulot excites 
much ambition. This directorship is promised, they say, to 
M. le Comte' Martial de la Roche-Hugon, deputy, brother-in- 
law of M. le Comte de Rastignac. » M. Massol, master of peti- 
tions, will be appointed councillor of state, and M. Claude 
Viguon takes M. Massol ’s office.” 

Of all canards^ the most dangerous for the oppo- 
sition journals is the official canard. However wary 


Cousin Bette, 


417 


journalists may be, they are sometimes the voluntary 
or involuntary dupes of the cleverness of those among 
their number who have passed, like Claude Vignon, to 
the higher regions of governmental power. It may 
be taken as an axiom that a journal can be put in the 
wrong only by a journalist. 


27 


418 


Cousin Bette. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

THE DEPARTURE OF THE PRODIGAL FATHER. 

Marechal Hulot drove his brother home, — the 
younger taking the front seat of the carriage, respect- 
fully leaving the otner to his elder. The two brothers 
did not exchange a word. Hector was annihilated, and 
the marshal wrapped in thought, like a man gathering 
up his strength to bear some crushing blow. When he 
reached home he took his brother silently and with im- 
perative gestures to his private study. The marshal 
had received from Napoleon the gift of a pair of mag- 
nificent pistols from the manufactory of Versailles. He 
took out the case, on which was stamped the follow- 
ing inscription, “ Given by the Emperor Napoleon to 
General Hulot,” and showed it to his brother, . saying, 
“ Here is your remedy.” 

Lisbeth, who saw what took place from the other 
side of the half-open door, ran to the carriage and 
ordered the coachman to drive fast to the rue Plumet. 
Twenty minutes later she returned with the baroness, 
having warned her of the marshal’s threat. 

Meantime the count, without looking at his brother, 
rang for his factotum, the soldier who had served him 
for thirty years. 

“ Beaupied,” he said, “ fetch my notary, Comte Stein- 
bock, my niece Hortense, and the broker of the TreaS' 


Cousin Bette. 


419 


ury. It is half- past ten o’clock, and I want all those 
persons here b}" twelve. Take carriages, — go ! ” he 
said, with the tenible look on his face which held his 
soldiers quiet as he examined the jennets of Brittan}’ in 
1799. [See “Xes Chouans.'"'] 

“ You shall be obeyed, Marechal,” said Beaupied, 
carrying the back of his hand to his forehead. 

Without noticing his brother, the old man took a 
key from his desk and unlocked a casket made of mal- 
achite veneered on steel, a gift from the Emperor Alex- 
ander. The marshal had been sent by the Emperor 
Napoleon to the Eussian emperor to return certain pri- 
vate property which had been captured at the battle 
of Dresden, in exchange for which Napoleon hoped to 
obtain Vandamme. The Czar rewarded General Hulot 
magnificently with this casket, and told him that he 
hoped some day to return the courtesy of the French 
emperor; but he kept Vandamme. The imperial arms 
of Russia were inlaid in gold on the cover of the box 
and the edges and ornaments were of solid gold. The 
marshal examined the value of its contents, and found 
that he was worth over a hundred and fifty thousand 
francs. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. At this mo- 
ment Madame Hulot entered the room. She looked at 
Hector, at the case of pistols, and at the marshal with 
a frenzied eye. 

“What complaint do you make of j’our brother? 
What has mj^ husband done to 3’ou ? ” she said, in so 
piercing a voice that the marshal heard her. 

“He has dishonored us all!” answered the old 
soldier, “ He has robbed the State 1 He has rendered 
my name odious ! He has made me wish to die ! Pie 


420 


Cousin Bette, 


has killed me ! I have no strength left except to make 
restitution. I have been humiliated before the Conde 
of the Revolution, before the man I esteem the most 
and to whom I unjustly gave the lie, the Prince de Wis- 
sembourg. Is all that nothing? That is the public 
charge against him.” 

The marshal wiped away a tear. 

“ The wrong done to his family is another thing,” he 
resumed. “ He deprives you of the bread I was lading 
up for 3^ou, the fruit of thirty years’ savings, the cost of 
an old soldier’s privations ! I destined these for you,” 
he said, showing her the bank bills. “ He has killed his 
uncle Fischer, that noble Alsatian who was unable to 
bear, as he does, the stain upon his peasant name. God 
in his mercy had enabled him to choose an angel among 
women for his wife ; he had the untold happiness of 
marrying an Adeline ; he has betrayed her, he has 
steeped her in sorrow, he has deserted her for harlots, 
dancing- women, actresses, the Cadines, Josephas and 
Marneffes I That is the man whom I made mj^ child, 
m}’^ pride ! Go, unhappy man, since j’ou accept the in- 
famous life 3’ou have made for yourself, — depart ! I — I 
have no strength to curse the brother I have loved so 
well ; I am as weak toward him as you are, Adeline ; 
but let him never enter my sight again. I forbid him 
to look upon me in my coffin or to follow me to the 
grave. Let him have the decency of crime if he has 
none of its remorse.” 

The marshal, turning livid, fell on the sofa of his 
little room, exhausted by the utterance of these solemn 
words. Tears, perhaps for the first time in his life, 
rolled down his cheeks. 


Cousin Bette. 


421 


“My poor uncle Fischer!” cried Lisbeth, putting a 
handkerchief to her eyes. 

“Brother!” said Adehne, kneeling before the mar- 
shal, “ live for me. Help me in the work of restoring 
Hector to a right life and making him redeem his wrong- 
doing.” 

“ He ! ” said the marshal, “if he lives, his crimes will 
increase. A man who has deserted an Adeline, who 
has quenched within his soul the sentiments of a true 
republican — love of country, of family, of the poor 
and unfortunate — sentiments which I strove to teach 
him, is a monster, a hog. Take him away if you still 
love him, for I hear a voice within telling me to seize 
my pistols and blow his brains out. If I should kill 
him I should save 3’ou all ; I should save him from 
himself.” 

The old marshal rose with so formidable a gesture 
that poor Adeline, crying out “ Come, Hector ! ” seized 
her husband’s arm and dragged him awaj", so broken in 
strength and spirit that she was obliged to take him in 
a carriage to the rue Plumet, where he took to his bed. 
Half-dead, he stayed there several days, refusing all 
nourishment and saying not a word. Adeline coaxed 
him, with tears, to swallow a few mouthfuls of broth ; 
she nursed him night and day, sitting b}: his pillow, con- 
scious of no feeling among the many that formerly' had 
filled her heart, but that of deepest pity. 

At half-past twelve Lisbeth ushered the notary and 
Steinbock into the study of her dear marshal, whom she 
determined not to leave alone for a moment, so terrified 
was she at the changes that were taking place in him. 

“ Monsieur le Comte,” said the marshal, “ I beg 3rou 


422 


Cousin Bette. 


to sign this paper authorizing my niece, 3’our wife, to 
sell the investment in the Funds of which she owns the 
capital and her cousin the life-interest. Mademoiselle 
Fischer, do 3"ou acquiesce in this sale hy resigning the 
income ? ” 

Yes, dear count,” said Lisbeth, unhesitatingly. 

“ Very good, my dear,” said the old soldier ; “ I hope 
to live long enough to make it up to 3’ou. I have never 
doubted 3’ou ; 3"OU are a true republican, a daughter of 
the people.” 

He took the hand of the old maid and kissed it. 

“Monsieur Hannequin,” he resumed, turning to the 
notary, “ draw up the necessary papers and let me have 
them two hours hence, — in time to sell out the money at 
the Bourse to-day. M}^ niece, the countess, has the 
certificates ; she will be here, ready to sign the papers 
together with Mademoiselle, when ^'ou bring them. 
Monsieur le comte will accompany you and give you 
his signature at j^our office.” 

At a sign from Lisbeth the artist bowed respectfully 
to the marshal and left the room. 

The next day, at ten o’clock in the morning, the 
Comte de Forzheim asked an audience of the Prince 
de Wissembourg and was at once admitted. 

“ Well, my dear Hulot,” said Marechal Cottin, hold- 
ing out a batch of newspapers to his old comrade. “You 
see we have saved appearances — Read these.” 

The marshal laid the papers on his . friend’s desk, and 
held out in turn the two hundred thousand francs. 

“ Here is what my brother took from the State,” he 
said. 

“ What madness ! ” exclaimed the minister. “ It is 


Cousin Bette, 


423 


quite impossible,” he added, taking the ear-trumpet the 
marshal offered him, ‘‘to make this restitution. We 
should be obliged to make public 3’^our brother’s pecula- 
tions, and we have now done all we can to hide them — ” 

“ Do what 3^ou like with the money; but I will not 
permit the Hulot family to keep one penny of the public 
funds — stolen b}" one of us ! ” said the marshal. 

“I will take the King’s orders on this subject. Let 
us say no more about it,” answered the minister, per- 
ceiving how impossible it was to overcome the old man’s 
obstinac3\ 

“Adieu, Cottin,” said the marshal, taking his old 
comrade b3' the hand. “ M3^ soul is numb — ” Then, 
having gone a few paces, he turned, looked at the 
prince, saw his emotion, and opened his arms to him. 
The two friends clasped each other. 

“I seem to bid adieu to the whole Grand Army in 
your person,” said the marshal. 

“ Farewell, m3" good and dear old comrade,” said the 
minister. 

“ Yes, farewell, — I go to the old soldiers whom we 
have mourned.” 

Claude Vignon entered the room at this moment. 
The old relics of the Napoleonic legions bowed to 
each other gravel3% hiding all trace of emotion. 

“ I hope, prince, that 3’ou are satisfied with those 
articles?” said the journalist. “I have managed to 
make the opposition papers believe that they are pub- 
lishing our secrets.” 

“Unfortunately, it is all to no purpose,” said the 
minister, looking after the marshal who was passing out 
through the salon. “ I have just said a grievous fare- 


424 


Cousin Bette. 


well. Marechal Hulot has but a few da 3 'S to live, — I 
knew it 3 ^esterda 3 \ That man of divine honor, whom 
the very bullets respected in spite of his bravery, re- 
ceived his death-blow there, in that chair, from my hand, 
by a paper which I gave him. Ring for my carriage. 
I must go to Neuilly,” he said, locking up the two hun- 
dred thousand francs. 

Three da 3 ’s later, in spite of all Bette’s care, Mare- 
chal Hulot died. Such men are the honor of the parties 
with which they side. In the minds of Republicans 
the marshal was the ideal of patriotism ; their leaders 
were at his funeral, which was followed by an immense 
crowd. The arm 3 ", the administration, the court, the 
people came to do homage to that high virtue, that 
unblemished integrit}^, that spotless fame. It is not 
through desiring it that a man is mourned b}" a people ! 
These obsequies were the occasion for one of those 
graceful testimonials, full of good feeling and good 
taste, which every now and then recall the virtues and 
the gloiy of the old French nobility. Behind the mar- 
shal’s coffin came the old Marquis de Montauran, brother 
of the Montauran who at the rising of the Chouans in 
1799 had been the adversary", and the defeated adver- 
sary, of Hulot. The marquis, dying from a republican 
bullet, confided the interests of his 3 'ounger brother to 
the hero of the Republic [see “ Les C7Aowans.”]. Hulot 
fulfilled the verbal bequest of the nobleman so faithfully 
that he succeeded in saving the property of the 3 'Ounger 
Montauran, who had emigrated. Thus the respect and 
reverence of the old French nobility were not lacking 
to the funeral of the soldier who, nine years earlier, had 
vanquished madame. 


Cousin Bette. 


425 


The marshal’s death, which took place four da3’S be- 
fore the time for the last publication of the banns of 
marriage, was to Lisbeth like a stroke of lightning that 
burned her whole harvest together with the granaiy. 
The woman had, as often happens, succeeded onl3^ too 
well. The marshal died of the blows which she and 
Madame Marne ife rained upon the famil3\ The old 
maid’s hatred, satiated by success, now redoubled under 
the defeat of her hopes. She rushed to Madame Mar- 
neffe and wept tears of rage. She was homeless, for 
the marshal’s lease ended with his life. Crevel, to 
console his Valerie’s dear friend, took her savings, 
and doubled them, investing the amount at five per 
cent, giving her the life-interest and placing the cap- 
ital in Celestine’s name. Thanks to this operation, 
Bette received an income of about two thousand francs. 
When the marshal’s papers were examined a note was 
found addressed to his sister-in-law, his niece Hortense, 
and his nephew Victorin, requesting them to pa3' out of 
the propert3’ the3^ inherited from him an annuit}' of 
twelve hundred francs to the woman who was to have 
been his wife. 

Adeline, feeling that Hector hovered between life and 
death, concealed his brother’s death for a few days. 
But Lisbeth came to see him dressed in mourning, and 
he learned the fatal truth eleven da3’S after the funeral. 
The dreadful blow roused his energies. He rose from 
his bed and met the famil3’ in the salon. All were 
silent on his appearance. In the short space of fifteen 
days he was shrunken to a spectre, and appeared to his 
family but a shadow of himself. 

“We must decide on what to do,” he said in a hollow 


426 


Cousin Bette. 


voice, sitting down in an armchair and looking round 
upon the family gathering, from which only Crevel and 
Steinbock were missing. 

“We cannot stay here/’ remarked Hortense ; “the 
rent is too high.” 

“ As to a house,” said Victorin, after a painful pause 
“ I offer my mother — ” 

Hearing the words which seemed to exclude himself, 
tlie baron raised his eyes from the carpet where they 
had been fixed and gave his son an agonizing look. 
The rights of a father are so sacred, even though he be 
deorraded and lost to a sense of honor, that Victorin 
stopped short. 

“To your mother!” said the baron. “You are 
right, my son.” 

“The apartment above our own,” said C41estine, 
completing her husband’s offer. 

“I am in your way, my children,” said the baron 
with the gentleness of a man who condemns himself. 

‘ ‘ Do not be anxious about the future ; you will have no 
further cause to complain of your father.” Then sign- 
ing to Lisbeth, who came up to him, he kissed her on 
the forehead and returned to his own room. Adeline, 
keenly distressed, followed him. 

“ My brother was right, Adeline,” he said, taking her 
b}’ the hand. “ I am unworthy of the family home. I 
dare not bless m}^ poor children, whose conduct has 
been noble, for the blessing of an infamous man, of a 
father who has made himself a murderer, the scourge 
of his family, might be fatal to them ; but I will bless 
them from afar daily. As for you, God alone, the All- 
powerful, can reward you according to your merits — I 


Cousin Bette* 


427 


implore 3’our pardon,” he said, kneeling before his wife 
and bathing her hands with his tears. 

“ Hector! Hector! j’oiir sins are great, but the Di- 
vine mercy is greater ; j^ou can redeem them by sta}’- 
ing here in 3’our home. Rise to Christian thoughts, 
dear friend. I am your wife and not 3"our judge. I 
am your chattel, do with me as it pleases 3’ou ; take me 
where you go ; I have the power, I feel it, to console 
3’ou, to make life bearable to you by love, by tender- 
ness, b^’ respect ! Our children are settled in life ; 
they no longer need me. Let me try to be 3’Our cheer- 
fulness, your amusement. Let me share the trials of 
your exile, 3’our povert}^ ; let me soften them. I can 
alwa3^s be good for something, be it only to save you 
the wages of a servant — ” 

“ Do 3^ou forgive me, my dear, beloved Adeline?” 

“ Yes ; but oh, m3" friend, rise ! ” 

“Your forgiveness will enable me to live,” he said, 
rising from his knees. “I came back to my room that 
my children might not see the self-abasement of their 
father. How awful for them to have dail3^ before their 
eyes a father as criminal as I am ! it casts down pater- 
nal authority, it destroys the principle of family. I 
cannot remain in 3’Our midst ; I go to spare 3’ou the 
odious spectacle of a father without a father’s dignity. 
Do not oppose my departure ; if you do, it will be the 
pistol-shot by which I seek my death. Above all, do not 
follow me to my hiding-place ; 3"ou would deprive me 
of the only strength that remains to me, that of 
remorse.” 

His energetic entreaty silenced the poor, exhausted 
woman. Grand in the midst of ruin and desolation, 


428 


Cousin Bette. 


she was gathering courage from her sense of inward 
union with her husband ; she knew him hers ; she 
saw her sublime mission — that of consoling him, of 
restoring him to family life, of reconciling him with 
himself. 

‘‘Hector, would 3'ou have me die of distress, of anxi- 
ety’, of despair ?” she said, seeing that her last hope, 
the principle of her life, was about to be taken from 
her. 

“ I will return, my guai’dian angel, who came from 
heaven to save me. I will return, if not rich, at 
least in comfort. Listen to me, Adeline ; I cannot staj’’ 
here for many reasons. In the first place, my pension, 
which is ten thousand francs a 3"ear, is mortgaged for 
four 3’ears ; I have literally nothing. But that ’s not all. 
If I remain here I shall be an’ested for the non-pa^’ment 
of notes I have given Vauvinet. I must absent m^^self 
until my son, with whom I shall leave precise directions, 
has been able to redeem the papers. My disappearance 
will aid the transaction. When my pension is free, and 
when Vauvinet is paid, I will come back to 3*ou. You 
would disclose my place of exile if I told it to 3’ou. 
Don’t weep, Adeline ; be calm. It is onl^^ for a month 
that — ” 

“Where are 3’ou going? what can 3’ou do? What 
will become of 3"ou ? who will take care of 3’ou ? — 3’ou, 
who are no longer young ! Let me disappear with you ; 
let us go abroad,” she said. 

“ Well, I will see,” he answered. 

The baron rang the bell and told Mariette to get all 
his things together and pack his trunks quickly and se- 
cretty. Then, after kissing his wife with an effusion to 


Cousin Bette* 


429 


whicli she was no longer accustomed, he asked her to 
leave him for a while that he might write his last instruc- 
tions to Victorin ; promising not to leave the house till 
night-fall and to take her with him. As soon as she 
had entered the salon and closed the door the wily old 
man passed through the dressing-room into the ante- 
chamber and left the house, giving Mariette a paper on 
which was written, “ Direct my trunks to Monsieur 
Hector, Corbeil, to be kept till called for. Send them 
by railroad to Corbeil.” He was in a hackney-coach 
and already half-across Paris before Mariette took the 
paper to the baroness, telling her that Monsieur had 
gone out. Adeline flew into his bedroom, trembling 
more than ever; her children followed her on hearing 
a piercing cry. She had fainted ; they lifted her and put 
her to bed, where she was seized with a nervous fever 
which kept her between life and death for a month. 

“ Where is he? ” were the only words they could get 
from her during that time. 

Victorin’s search for his father was fruitless, — for the 
following reason. The baron had gone direct to the 
place du Palais-Royal. There, having summoned all his 
intelligence to carry out a scheme he had planned during 
the days when he had lain on his bed overcome with 
shame and grief, he hired a handsome carriage from a 
stable in the rue Joquelet. The coachman, receiving 
his orders, drove to the rue de la Ville-l’Ev^que and 
entered the courtyard of Jos^pha’s mansion, the gates 
flying back at the call of the driver of a flne equipage. 
Josepha, informed by her footman that an old man, too 
feeble to leave his carriage, was at the door asking to 
see her, came down out of sheer curiosity. 


430 


Cousin Bette, 


‘‘ Josepha, it is I ! ” 

The illustrious singer recognized her former Hulot by 
his voice only. 

“What! you, my old man? Why, you look like 
those five-franc pieces which the Dutch Jews wash off, 
and the money-changers reject ! ” 

“ Alas, yes,” said Hulot, “ I have just escaped death. 
But you are always beautiful — are you still kind ? ” 

“ That's according — all is relative,” she answered. 

“ Look here,” said Hulot ; “ can you put me away in 
some servant's room under the roof, for a few daj^s? 
I am without a penny ; without hope, or bread, or pen- 
sion, or wife, or children, or refuge; without honor, 
without courage, without a friend, and worse than all, I 
am liable to be arrested for debt.” 

“ Poor old fellow ! what a lot of withouts ! Are j^ou 
without breeches?” 

“ Ah, if you laugh at me, I am lost,” cried the baron. 
“Yet I counted on you as Gourville on Ninon.” 

“ I 'm told it is a fashionable woman who has dragged 
you into j^our present plight,” said Josepha. “ Those 
minxes know how to pluck a turkey better than we do ! 
Why, you are like a carcass thrown to the crows. I can 
see daylight through you.” 

“ I am in a hurry, Josepha.” 

“Well, come in, old man; I'm alone, and my ser- 
vants don't know you. Send away your carriage. Have 
you paid the fare ? ” 

“Yes,” replied the baron, getting out, and leaning 
on Josepha's arm. 

“You can pass for my father, if you like,” said the 
singer, full of pity. 


Cousin Bette, 


481 


She made Hector sit down in the splendid room where 
he had last seen her. 

“Is it true, old fellow,” she said, “that you have 
killed your brother and j'our uncle, ruined your family, 
mortgaged and remortgaged your property, and made 
ducks and drakes of the government money with your 
princess ? ” 

The baron nodded sadly. 

“Ha! I admire that!” cried Josepha, jumping up 
enthusiastically. “ General conflagration ! Sardanapa- 
lus ! that ^s grand ! that ’s thorough ! You may be a 
scoundrel ; but you have a heart. For my part, I 
prefer a passionate spendthrift like you, who wastes 
his substance on women, to those cold bankers with- 
out souls, virtuous (so called), who ruin thousands of 
families with their railways, which are gold to them 
and iron to others. As for j’ou, you have only ruined 
your family ; 3’ou have injured none but 3’ourself. Be- 
sides, you had an excuse, — a moral and physical ex- 
cuse. ‘ ’T is Venus herself who has grasped her pre3' ! ' ” 
she cried, pirouetting. 

Thus was Hulot absolved b3" vice — vice smiling upon 
him from the midst of its unbridled luxur3\ The gran- 
deur of his crimes seemed there, as often happens be- 
fore juries, an extenuating circumstance. 

“ Is she prett3’^, — 3"Our society woman?” demanded 
Josepha, trying, out of charity, to divert the baron’s 
mind ; for his evident suflfering distressed her. 

“ Almost as prett3" as 3’ou,” said the baron, shrewdl3\ 

“ And ver3^ — tricky, they tell me. What did she do 
to 3"Ou ? — worse than I ? ” 

“ Don’t speak of it,” said Hulot. 


432 


Cousin Bette, 


* “They do say she has snared my old Crevel and 
little Steinbock and a splendid Brazilian — ” 

“ Possibly.” 

“ She is living in as pretty a house as this, which 
Crevel gave her. That creature is ni}' scavenger ; she 
sweeps up ray leavings. Come, old man, I want to 
know all about her. I have seen her in an open car- 
riage in the Bois, but only at a distance. La Carabine 
sa3’s she is a thorough harpy. vShe tried to eat up Cre- 
vel, but could onl}' get a nibble at him. Crevel is an 
old skinflint, a good-natured tight-fist who always sa^'s 
yes, and there it ends. He ’s vain and he ’s hot ; but 
his money is cold. We get nothing out of such fellows 
but two or three thousand francs a month ; the}’ balk at 
prodigality like donkey’s at a river. That’s not you^ 
old man ; 3'ou ’ve got passions. We could make 3’ou 
do anything, — sell your countiy ! And so, you see, 
I am read}^ to do ever3’thing for 3'ou. You were my 
father ; 3’ou launched me. The obligation is sacred. 
How much do 3’ou want ? — a hundred thousand francs ? 
I ’ll go all lengths to get them for you. As for food 
and lodging, that ’s nothing. Your plate will alwa3’s 
be laid at my table, and there ’s a good bedroom on the 
second floor ; and you shall have three hundred francs a 
month pocket-mone}’.” 

The baron, touched b}’ this kindness, had a momen- 
tar}" return of dignit}’. 

“No, my dear, no,” he said; “I did not come to 
ask 3’ou to support me.” 

“You might be proud of it, though, at 3’our age.” 

“ Here is what I want 3’ou to do. Your Due d’H^rou- 
ville owns large estates in Normand}’. I want to be his 


Cousin Bette, 


433 


steward, under the name of Thoul. I have enough ahil- 
it}" and I am honest. Yes, a man may take from the 
government, but it does n’t follow that he ’ll rob a till.” 

“ Ha, ha ! ” laughed Josepha. “ He who has drunk 
will drink ! ” 

All I want is to live in hiding for three j^ears.” 

“ That’s a trifling matter,” said Josepha ; “ to-night, 
after dinner, I have onl}" to ask him. The duke would 
marry me if I wished it ; but I have his fortune, and 
I want more — his esteem. He is a prince of the old 
school, — noble, distinguished, grand, like Louis XIV 
and Napoleon rolled into one, though he is a dwarf. 
Besides, I have acted by him as La Schontz did by 
Rochefide ; he has just made two millions b}’ taking my 
advice. Now listen, my old fire-eater. I know you, — 
you love women ; and down there on the duke’s prop- 
erty' you would run after the Norman girls (for the}' ’re 
superb), and 3'ou would get your head broken by the 
lovers or the fathers, and D’Herouville would have to 
dismiss you. Don’t I know, by the way 3'ou are looking 
at me now, that, youth is not yet dead in 3'ou, as Fen- 
elon says? Stewardship is no business for 3'ou. You 
could n’t break awa}' if 3'ou would, old fellow, from your 
Paris ways and from all of us. You would die of ennui 
down there in Normandy.” 

“ What else can I do? I will only stay with 3'Ou long 
enough to find somewhere to go.” 

“ Well, what do 3'Ou say to an idea of mine? Lis- 
ten, old rake. You must have women; they console 
for everything. Now I know a girl who is a treasure, 
down there at the foot of the Courtille, rue Saint-Maur 
du Temple, — a pretty girl, prettier than I was at six- 
28 


434 


Cousin Bette. 


teen — Ha! 3’our eyes sparkle already! She works 
sixteen hours a day embroidering handsome things for 
the silk-dealers, and all she gets for it is sixteen sous, 
— a sou an hour ! Horrors ! She lives, like the Irish, 
on potatoes (only she fries them in rat grease), bread 
five times a week, and canal-water from the street-pipes, 
because the Seine water costs too dear. She can’t set 
up a shop of her own short of five or six thousand 
francs — there is n’t anything she would n’t do for that 
sum. Your wife and family bore 3"Ou, — don’t the}’ ? 
Besides, 3’ou couldn’t live now where 3^ou were once 
a god. A father without monej’ and without honor ! — 
he ’s a nothing, a man of straw. He ought to be kept 
out of sight — ” 

The baron smiled drearfiy. 

“ Well, little Bijou is coming here to-morrow with an 
embroidered dress, — a perfect love. It took her six 
months to do, and nobod}" is to have one like it. Bijou 
loves me, for I give her sweet things and all my old 
gowns. I send bread tickets and wood tickets and meat 
for the family, who would all break their necks in my 
service if I asked it. I try to do some good. Ah ! I 
suffered enough when I went hungry ! Bijou tells me 
all her little secrets. She has the makings of a ballet- 
girl for the Ambigu-Comique in her. She dreams of 
dtesses like mine, and specially of driving in a carriage. 
If I say to her, ‘ My pretty, do you want a gentle- 
man of — ’ How old are you ? ” said Josepha, suddenly 
interrupting herself, — “ seventy? ” 

“I’m of no age now.” 

“ Shall I say seventy? — very neat, never takes snuff, 
sound as a roach, and just as good as a young man? 


Cousin Bette. 


435 


I’ll tell her she can marr}- you b}’ the left hand and 
live very happily ever after ; and that you ’ll give her 
seven thousand francs to set up a business, and a hun- 
dred francs a month to keep house on, and furnish 
her rooms in mahogany, and sometimes, if she is 
very good, take her to the theatre. I know Bijou, 
she ’s myself at fourteen ! I jumped for joy when 
that abominable Crevel proposed to me. Now, my 
old fellow ! this will pack 3'ou out of sight for three 
years. It’s decent, it’s honest, and moreover, it will 
give 3’ou some illusions for three or four 3"ears, — not 
longer.” 

Hulot was not hesitating, for he was determined to 
refuse the offer ; but his desire to show gratitude to 
Josepha, who was doing good after her kind, made him 
appear to vacillate between vice and virtue. 

“ Wh3^ 3’ou’re as cold as the stones in December,” 
she exclaimed, astonished. “ If 3’ou do as I tell 3’ou, 
3"Ou’ll be the providence of a grandfather who earns 
nothing, a mother who is dying of overwork, and of two 
sisters, one of whom is ugl3% who can earn onN thirt3’- 
two sous a da3" between them, at the risk of putting out 
their eyes. That will compensate for all the harm 3’ou 
have done at home ; 3’ou ’ll redeem your misdeeds and 
amuse yourself like a lorette at Mabille.” 

Hulot, to put an end to the temptation, made a sign 
of being without a penn3\ 

“ As for that,” said Josepha, “ never mind about the 
ways and means. M3" duke will lend 3"ou ten thousand 
francs, — seven thousand to set up Bijou in a shop of 
her own, three thousand for furniture, — and ever3" three 
months ’you ’ll find a cheque here for six hundred and 


436 


Cousin Bette, 


fifty francs to live on. When 3"ou get back j^our pen- 
sion you must return the total, seventeen thousand in 
all, to the duke. Meantime you ’ll be as happ}’ as a 
cricket, hidden away in a little hole where the police 
can’t find j'oii. You ’ll have to wear a big beaver coat, 
and make believe 3011 are owner of some neighboring 
house, in easy circumstances. Call 3"ourself Thoul, if 
that ’s 3'our fanc3\ I shall tell Bijou that 3’ou are an 
uncle of mine, just come from German3’, — 3’ou’ll be 
worshipped like a god. So there you are, papa ! and 
perhaps, who knows, 3’ou ’ll be so happy 3’ou ’ll never 
regret the past. If you do get dull sometimes, keep a 
dress-coat read3* and come here to dinner and spend 
the evening with me.” 

“ But I meant to be virtuous, respectable ! No, lend 
me twent3^ thousand francs and I ’ll go and make my 
fortune in America, like my friend d’Aiglemont when 
Nucingen ruined him.” 

“You!” cried Josepha, “no, no, leave moralit3’ to 
the shopkeepers, the every-da3" thieves and murderers, 
the French citizens who have nothing but virtue to fall 
back upon. You were never born for such silliness ! 
As a man 3^011 are just what I am as a woman, — an 
out-and-out vagabond ! ” 

“Night brings wisdom,” said Hulot. “We’ll talk 
of this to-morrow.” 

“ You will dine with the duke to-night. My Herou- 
ville will receive 3"ou politely, as if 3’^ou had just saved 
the State, and to-morrow 3’ou can decide. Come, be 
livel3', my old friend. Life’s but a garment, — when 
it’s dirty, brush it; when it’s torn, mend it; make it 
last as long and as good as 3’ou can.” 


Cousin Bette. 


437 


This philosophy of vice and Josepha’s gayety com- 
bined removed the last of Hiilot’s scruples. 

The next da}^ after a succulent breakfast, the baron 
beheld one of those living masterpieces which Paris 
alone manufactures, by reason of the perpetual concu- 
binage of luxur}' and povert}^, vice and decency, re- 
pressed desire and continual temptation, which makes 
this city the lineal descendant of the Ninevehs, the 
Bab3dons, and the one imperial Rome. Mademoiselle 
Olj’mpe Bijou, a little girl of sixteen, had a face like a 
Raphael Madonna, eyes of weary innocence, weary with 
incessant toil, dreamy dark eyes with long lashes, 
whose liquid lights were drying up under the fire of 
laborious nights, — e^’es that grew darker still with the 
gloom of exhaustion, — a porcelain skin that was almost 
sickly, a mouth like the inside of a pomegranate, a 
throbbing bosom, the lines of the figure full and rounded, 
pretty hands, pearl-white teeth, abundant black hair ; 
and all these beauties dressed in a twelve-sous calico, 
an embroidered collar, leather shoes without nails, and 
gloves of the cheapest make. The child, who did not 
know her own worth, had donned her best clothes to go 
to the house of a great lad}’. The baron, instantly 
gripped b}^ the claw fingers of vice, felt his whole being 
going out through his ej’es. He forgot all before this 
vision of beauty. He was like a hunter in sight of the 
game. 

“ Guaranteed innocent,” whispered Josepha, “ and 
poor. That ’s your Paris. I ’ve been through it my- 
self.” 

“I decide,” said the baron, rising and rubbing his 
hands. 


438 


Comin Bette » 


When Olympe Bijou had left the house Josepha looked 
slyly at the old man. 

“ If you don’t want to have trouble, papa,” she said, 
“ begin firm ; be as stern as a judge on the bench ; hold 
the little thing in hand. Be a Bartholo. Look out for 
the Augustuses and Hippolytuses and Nestors and 
Victors, and all the rest of them. Plague take it ! if 
you let her get her head after she is once well-fed and 
well-clothed, she ’ll drag you about like a Russian. I ’ll 
attend to settling you down there. The duke has been 
liberal ; he lends you — that is to say, he gives you — ten 
thousand francs and puts eight of them with his notary, 
who is to pay you six hundred quarterly, — for the fact 
is, I can’t trust 3"OU. Am I charming?” 

“ Adorable.” 

Ten days after he had abandoned his family, and at 
the very moment when his children were standing in 
tears around the bed of the half-d3ing Adeline, who 
was saying in feeble tones, “Where is he?” Hulot, 
under the anagram of Thoul, went to live with Olj^mpe 
in the rue Saint-Maur, at the head of an establishment 
for embroideries, which was called by the associated 
names of Thoul and Bijou. 


Cousin Bette, 


439 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 

Through the implacable misfortunes of his family, 
Victorin Hulot received that last touch which corrupts 
a man or perfects him. He became perfect. In the 
great tempests of life we follow the example of wise 
captains who fling the heavier merchandise overboard 
in a hurricane to lighten the ship. The lawj^er laid 
aside his inward pride, his outward assumption, his ar- 
rogance as an orator, and his political pretensions. In 
fact he became as a man what his mother was as a 
woman. He resolved to accept his Celestine for what 
she was, — certainly not the realization of his dreams, 
— he judged life soberly, and saw that the common 
law of existence obliges men to be content in all things 
with the approximate. He swore within himself to do 
his duty, — so deep was the horror his father’s con- 
duct caused him. This resolution was renewed and 
strengthened by the bedside of his mother on the day 
she was pronounced out of danger. That flrst relief 
did not come singl3\ On the same day Claude Vignon, 
who inquired dailj^ for Madame Hulot on behalf of the 
Prince de Wissembourg, requested Victorin to return 
with him to the ministry. 

“His Excellency",” he said, “wishes to confer with 
you about your family affairs.” 


440 


Cousin Bette. 


Victorin and the minister had known each other for a 
long time, and the latter now received the 3'oung man 
with a characteristic affability that augured well. 

“My friend,” said the old warrior, “I swore to 
3’our uncle, the marshal, in this room, to take care of 
your mother. That noble woman will, I am told, re- 
cover her health. The moment has therefore come to 
heal the family wounds. I have two hundred thousand 
francs for 3"Ou, which I will now pay over.” 

The law3’er made a gesture of refusal worth3’ of his 
uncle the marshal. 

“ Do not be uneas3V’ said the prince smiling ; “ the 
mone3’ was onl3’ placed in m3' hands in trust for 3’our 
famil3'. M3^ da3's are numbered ; I shall not be here 
long, — take the mone3', therefore, and replace me as 
trustee. You are at liberty to use it to lift the mortgages 
from 3’our house. The two hundred thousand francs 
belong to 3'our mother and sister \ but if I gave them to 
Madame Hulot her devotion to her husband is such that 
I fear she would waste them on him, and the intention 
of those who placed the money in my hands was that 
it should benefit Madame Hulot and her daughter, the 
Comtesse Steinbock. You are a moral man, the worth3' 
son of 3'Our noble mother, a true nephew of m3' friend 
the marshal. You are appreciated here, m3^ 3'oung 
friend, as 3'ou are elsewhere. Be, therefore, the guar- 
dian of your famil3\ Accept this legac3' behalf 

from 3'our uncle and from me.” 

“Monseigneur,” said Hulot, taking the minister’s 
hand and pressing it, “ meo in 3'our position know that 
words of gratitude mean nothing, — thankfulness must 
prove itself b3’ deeds.” 


Cousin Bette, 


441 


“ Prove 3’ours,” said the old soldier. 

“ What must I do? *' 

“Accept an offer. The government wishes to ap- 
point you counsel for war-claims, the engineering de- 
partment being overcrowded with litigations in relation 
to the fortifications of Paris ; also legal adviser at the 
prefecture of police, and counsel for the civil-list. These 
three functions will give you a combined salar}" of 
eighteen thousand francs and will not deprive 3’ou of 
independence. You can vote in the Chamber accord- 
ing to 3’our conscience and your political opinions, 
— you are free to act; we should only be hampered 
if we had no national opposition. In conclusion let me 
sa}’ that I received a note from your uncle, written 
a few hours before he died, in which he suggested a 
line of conduct towards j’^our dear mother. Mesdames 
Popinot, de Rastignac, de Navarreins, de Grandlieu, 
de Carigliano, de Lenoncourt, and de la Bastie have 
created a place for her as inspectress of benevolent en- 
terprises. These presidents of various societies for good 
works cannot do all that their offices require ; they need 
some lad}’ fitted to act for them, to visit their cases, see 
that charity is not imposed upon, make sure that relief 
goes to the right applicant, and seek out the deserving 
and shrinking poor. Your mother could well fulfil that 
angelic mission ; she would be responsible to the clergy 
and to these charitable ladies only ; she would receive 
six thousand francs a year and her carriage hire. You 
see, my young friend, that the pure man, the nobly vir- 
tuous man, protects his family even from the grave. 
The memory of such men as your uncle is and ever 
should be an aegis against evil in all well organized 


442 


Cousin Bette. 


societies. Follow his path ; continue in his steps, — 
your feet are there already, I know that.” 

“ Such delicate kindness, prince, cannot surprise me 
in my uncle’s friend,” said Victorin. “ I will endeavor 
to answer your expectations.” 

“ Go and comfort your family with the news — But 
stay, tell me before 3^ou go,” added the prince, taking 
Victorin by the hand, “ has 3- our father disappeared?” 

“ Alas, 3^es.” 

“ So much the better. In so doing the unhappy man 
has shown, what he really possesses, good sense.” 

“ He had notes he could not meet.”* 

“Ah!” said the Marechal. “Well, 3^ou shall re- 
ceive six months’ salar3^ in advance. That will help 3’ou 
to get his notes from the mone3’-lenders. I ’ll see Nucin- 
gen, and perhaps I can persuade him to release 3 our 
father’s pension, without its costing you or the War office 
a penny. A peerage has not killed the banker in Nu- 
cingen ; he is insatiable, and he wants some grant, I 
forget what, out of us.” 

Victorin was thus enabled to carry out his desire to 
take his mother and sister to live with him. The only 
propert3" that he owned was one of the finest species 
of real estate in Paris ; a house bought in 1834 in 
preparation for his marriage, situated on the boule- 
vard, between the rue de la Paix and the rue Louis-le- 
Grand. A speculator had built two houses on the street 
and boulevard, between which, separated from both by 
a garden and courtyard on each side, stood a beautiful 
pavilion, a relic of the splendors of the great Verneuil 
mansion. Victorin Hulot, sure of Mademoiselle Cre- 
vel’s dowr3% bought this superb property at auction for 


Cousin Bette. 


443 


a million of francs, on which he paid five hundred thou- 
sand down. He lived on the ground-floor of the pa- 
vilion, expecting to pa}^ the full costs of the house by 
letting the various apartments. But though speculation 
in houses ma}^ be a sure thing it is also either slow or 
capricious, for success depends on circumstances that 
are not to be foreseen. Idlers in Paris must have 
noticed that the boulevard between the rue Louis-le- 
Grand and the rue de la Paix was slow to become prof- 
itable ; it was cleared out and improved with such delay 
that commerce did not display its gorgeous shop-win- 
dows filled with the fairy fabrics of fashion and the 
splendors of luxury till 1841. 

Although in the course of seven years Victorin had 
paid a part of the remaining purchase-money, yet in 
consequence of the relief he had afforded his father, the 
debt on the property now amounted to five hundred 
thousand francs. Happily, rents were increasing, and 
the beauty of the situation had begun to give a real 
value to the two houses. Offers came from different 

f 

merchants of good terms for the shop, provided they 
could have leases for terras of years. The apartments 
also increased in value by the removal of the business 
centre to the neighborhood between the Bourse and the 
Madeleine, henceforth the seat of political and financial 
power. The two houses, the various apartments of which 
were now all rented, brought in a hundred thousand 
francs a-year. In two years more, during which time 
young Hulot could live on the salaries given him by the 
Marechal, the family would be free from debt and in a 
splendid financial position. It was like manna falling 
from heaven. Victorin could give the first floor of the 


444 


Cousin Bette, 


pavilion to his mother, and the second floor to his sis- 
ter, where two rooms were reserved for Bette. Young 
Hulot himself, gifted with the faculty of legal speech, 
and a man of spotless integrity, gained the ear of judges 
and councillors and rapidly eclipsed his competitors of 
the bar. He studied cases, he advanced nothing he 
could not prove, refused to take indiscriminately all 
causes that were offered to him, and became, in time, 
regarded as an honor to the profession. 

The house in the rue Plumet had grown so distasteful 
to the baroness that she willingl}^ allowed her son to 
move her to the rue Louis-le-Grand, where she occu- 
pied a charming apartment. All housekeeping cares 
were spared to her by Lisbeth, who agreed to perform 
once more the economical feats she had formerly under- 
taken for Madame Marneflfe, foreseeing the chance of 
wreaking her secret vengeance on these noble lives, now, 
after the overthrow of all her hopes, the objects of her 
redoubled hatred. Once a month she went to see Val- 
erie, sent by Hortense, who wanted news of Wenceslas, 
and by Celestine, extremely uneasj^ at the avowed and 
acknowledged intimacy of her father with the woman to 
whom her mother and sister-in-law owed their ruin and 
their misery. Lisbeth, as may well be supposed, used 
this curiosity to enable her to see Valerie as often as 
she wished to do so. 

About twenty months passed in this way, during which 
time Madame Hulot’s health improved, although the 
nervous trembling of her head and hands did not de- 
crease. She soon mastered her new functions, which 
gave noble relief to her sorrows and suitable nourish- 
ment for the divine qualities of her nature. She saw 


Cousin Bette, 


445 


also the means of possibly recovering her husband in a 
work which took her into all quarters of Paris. Dur- 
ing these months the baron’s notes to Vauvinet were 
paid off and his pension almost liberated. The poor 
wife might have attained to something like happiness, 
had it not been for her ceaseless anxiety about her 
husband, her desire that he should share in the renewed 
prosperity of the family, her grief at her daughter’s 
forlorn position, and the terrible blows rained upon her 
with apparent innocence by Lisbeth, whose fiendish 
nature now had full swing. 

A scene took place early in March, 1843, which will 
serve to show the effects produced by the persistent latent 
hatred of Bette, aided continually b}’ Madame Marnefl*e. 
Two great events had happened in the latter’s house- 
hold. In the first place she had given birth to a still-born 
child, whose death brought her an annuity of two thou- 
sand francs. Then her husband’s health failed rapidly ; 
we give the report which Bette made to the Hulot family 
on her return one day from the Marneffe mansion : — 

“That dreadful Valerie sent for Doctor Bianchon 
this morning to make sure that the other doctors who 
pronounced Marneffe dying the night before were not 
mistaken. Bianchon says the wretch will go to the hell 
where he belongs before night. Old Crevel and Madame 
Marneffe followed the doctor out, and your father, my 
dear Celestine, gave him six gold pieces for the good 
news. When they came back to the salon, Crevel cut 
capers like a ballet-dancer; he kissed that woman, 
shouting out, ‘ Now I ’ll have a Madame Crevel ! ’ 
And when she returned to her husband’s bedside and 
left us alone, your honorable parent said to me : ‘ With 


446 


Cousin Bette, 


Valerie for a wife, I shall be peer of France. I shall 
buy that estate I covet, — Presles, which Madame de 
Serizy wants to sell ; I shall be Crevel de Presles ; I 
shall become a member of the council-general for the 
Seine-et-Oise, and deput3\ I shall have a son. I shall 
be all I choose to be!’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘and what 
about Celestine?’ ‘Bah! she is onty a daughter,' 
he replied ; ‘ she has grown too much of a Hulot, and 
Valerie has a horror of the whole family. My son-in- 
law chose never to come here : why should he set up for 
a mentor, a Spartan, a puritan, a philanthropist? Be- 
sides, I have done m3" duty to m3" daughter ; she has 
had her mother’s propert3" and two hundred thousand 
francs to boot. I am at libert3" to do as I like. I shall 
see how my son-in-law and my daughter behave about 
m3’ marriage. As the3’ behave, so shall I. If they treat 
their step-mother well, I ’ll see what I can do ! I am a 
man, and not a brute ! ’ — and all such stuff ! and then 
he struck an attitude like Napoleon on his column.” 

The ten-months’ legal widowhood ordained b3’ the 
Code Napoleon had just expired. Presles had been pur- 
chased. Victorin and Celestine sent Lisbeth one morn- 
ing to Madame Marneffe’s to ascertain when the 
charming widow was to many the mayor of Paris, now 
a member of the council-general of the Seine-et-Oise. 

Celestine and Hortense, whose affection was increased 
by living under one roof, were continuall3" together. 
The baroness, influenced b3’ her sense of honor, exag- 
gerated the duties of her office and sacrificed herself to 
the works of mercy for which she was the intermediar3’, 
going out daily at eleven o’clock and not returning home 
till five. The sisters-in-law, occupied with their children, 


Cousin Bette. 


447 


whom they cared for together, stayed at home with their 
sewing all day. They came at last to think aloud, — a 
touching spectacle of sisterly union, one sister cheerful, 
the other dispirited. Beautiful, overflowing with life, 
animated, smiling, and witt}’, the unfortunate Hortense 
seemed to give the lie to her real position ; while the 
depressed Celestine, gentle, calm, and equable as reason 
itself, habitually pensive and deliberate, gave an impres- 
sion of inward grief. Perhaps this contrast contributed 
to their warm friendship. The two women lent to each 
other what the other lacked. Sitting in a little arbor in 
the garden, which the mania for speculation in bricks 
and mortar had left untouched through the fancy of a 
builder who meant to keep these hundred square feet of 
open ground for himself, they enjo3’ed the blooming of 
the lilacs, that spring delight which is only trul}’ felt 
in Paris, where for six months Parisians live in total 
forgetfulness of vegetation between those cliffs of stone 
where the ocean of their human life tosses and flows. 

“ Celestine,” said Hortense, replying to a remark of 
her sister-in-law, who was complaining that her hus- 
band had to waste such fine weather at the Chamber, 
“ I think you don’t properly appreciate your blessings. 
Victorin is an angel ; and 3'OU plague him sometimes.” 

“ M3" dear, men lilje to be plagued. Certain squab- 
bles are a sign of love. If 3"our poor mother had been, 
I won’t say exacting, but near to being so, you would 
not have had so man3" troubles to deplore.” 

“ Lisbeth does n’t come back ! I shall sing Marl- 
borough’s song,” said Hortense. “I long for news of 
Wenceslas. How does he manage to live? He has 
not done a thing for two years.” 


448 


Cousin Bette, 


“Victorin saw him the other with that odious 
woman. thinks she supports him in idleness. Ah ! 
dear sister, if you only would, you could get him back 
again.” 

Hortense made a sign in the negative. 

“ But your situation will soon become intolerable,” 
said Celestine. “ At first, anger, despair, and indigna- 
tion gave you strength ; after that, the almost unheard- 
of troubles that fell upon us — two deaths, the ruin 
and disappearance of Baron Hulot — have filled your 
thoughts and your heart. But now that quiet and 
silence have settled down upon us, you will not easily 
bear the void in 3’our life ; and as you cannot, and 
never will, leave the path of honor, it stands to rea- 
son that you must be reconciled with Wenceslas. Vic- 
torin, who loves 3’ou so much, thinks as I do. There 
is something stronger than our sentiments, — I mean 
our nature.” 

“ A man so base ! ” cried Hortense, scornfull3^ “ He 
loves that woman because she supports him ! Paid his 
debts, has she? Good God ! I think night and daj’' of 
the situation that man has put himself in ! He is the 
father of my child, and he disgraces himself! ” 

“ Look at 3"our mother, dear,” said Celestine. 

Celestine belonged to the class of women who, after 
3"Ou have given them reasons strong enough to con- 
vince a Breton peasant, return for the hundredth time 
to their original argument. The character of her some- 
what insipid, cold, and common face, her light brown 
hair arranged in smooth, stiff bandeaux, and the color 
of her complexion, all indicated a sensible woman with- 
out charm, but also without weakness. 


Comin Bette, 


449 


“Your mother,” she continued, “would gladly be 
beside her disgraced husband, to comfort him and hide 
him in her heart from blame. She has arranged a room 
upstairs, as if she expected to find him some day and 
put him there.” 

“ My mother is sublime,” answered Hortense ; “ she 
has been sublime through ever}’ hour of eveiy day for 
the last twent3’-six years ; but I have not her temper- 
ament. I can’t help it. I get angry sometimes against 
myself ; but oh ! Celestine, you don’t know what it is to 
be on good terms with infamy.” 

“ Consider my father,” said Celestine, tranquilly ; “ he 
is on the very road by which your father perished. My 
father is ten years younger than the baron, and he has 
business habits, it is true ; but what will be the end of 
him ? That Madame Marneffe has made him her spaniel. 
She controls him, his mone}’, his ideas, and nothing will 
make him open his eyes. I tremble lest I should hear 
that the banns are published. My husband thinks of 
making one effort to prevent the marriage ; for he re- 
gards it as a duty to societ}’, to family life, to bring 
that woman to account. Ah ! my dear Hortense, souls 
like Victorin’s, hearts like ours, learn too late to know 
the world and its practices. This that I tell you is a 
secret ; I confide it to 3'Ou, for 3’ou are concerned in it ; 
but 3’Ou must not reveal it, by word or gesture, to Lis- 
beth, or 3"Our mother, or anybody, for — ” 

“Here’s Lisbeth!” exclaimed Hortense. “Well, 
cousin, how are things going in the infernal regions ? ” 
“ Badl}^ for 3’Ou, m3’ dears. *Your husband, m3" poor 
Hortense, is more infatuated than ever with that woman, 
who, I will admit, loves him madly. Your father, dear 
29 


450 


Cousin Bette. 


Celestine, is royally blind. All this, however, is noth- 
ing ; I ’ve been telling you this for months. I am truly 
thankful I have never been tied to a man ; they are all 
animals. But the climax has come; five days hence, my 
poor dear, 3’ou and Victorin will have lost your father’s 
propertj’.” 

“ Are the banns published?” said Celestine. 

“ Yes,” answered Bette. “ I have just been pleading 
3"Our cause. I told that monster, who is onl^" taking the 
leavings of others, that if he would help 3'ou out of your 
present embarrassments by paying off the mortgage on 
3^our house, 3"ou would receive 3*our step-mother.” 

Hortense made a gesture of horror. 

“ Victorin will consider that,” said Celestine, coldly. 

“What do 3^ou suppose the ma3’or replied?” re- 
sumed Lisbeth. “ ‘ I wish them to be embarrassed,’ 
he said. ‘ You can’t break a horse unless you keep 
him hungr3^ and sleepless and without sugar.’ Baron 
Hulot, bad as he is, is worth two of Monsieur Crevel. 
So, my dears, 3’ou may go into mourning for 3’our in- 
heritance. What a fortune to lose ! Your father, Celes- 
tine, paid three millions f9r the estate of Presles, and 
he still has an income of thirty thousand francs. Ah ! 
he has no secrets from me. He talks of buying the 
hotel Navarreins in the rue du Bac. Madame Marneffe 
herself has an income of fort3'’ thousand francs. Ah ! 
here comes our guardian angel, your mother ! ” she cried, 
hearing the wheels of a carriage. 

The baroness presently joined the little group in the 
garden. At'fift3'-five 3’ears of age, worn by many griefs, 
trembling incessantly as if with ague, Adeline, though 
pale and wrinkled, still retained her fine figure, with 


Cousin Bette* 


451 


its magnificent lines, and her natural dignity. Per- 
sons on seeing her said, “ She must have been very 
handsome! ” Wasting with grief at not knowing her 
husband’s fate and being unable to let him share the 
comfort which the family were about to enjoy, she was, 
to an observer, a tender tj’pe of the majest}' of ruins. 
As gleam after gleam of hope departed, and each in- 
quiry proved fruitless, Adeline sank into a dark depres- 
sion which terrified her children. Every morning she 
started on her rounds with renewed hope. Once an old 
commissary-general, a man Hulot had obliged, declared 
that he had seen the baron in a box at the Ambigu- 
Comique with a woman of remarkable beauty. Adeline 
went at once to question him. The functionary, while 
declaring that he certainly did see his old friend, and 
that his manner to the woman seemed to denote an 
illicit marriage, also stated to Madame Hulot that the 
baron left the theatre before the close of the play, 
evidently for the purpose of avoiding him. ‘ ‘ His man- 
ner was that of a family man, and his dress betrayed a 
want of means,” added the old officer. 

“Well?” exclaimed the three women when Adeline 
returned. 

“ Monsieur Hulot is in Paris,” said Adeline, there ’s 
a gleam of happiness for me in feeling he is so near.” 

“He doesn’t appear to have reformed,” remarked 
Lisbeth, when Adeline had ended her account. “He 
has evidently taken up with some little workwoman. 
But where does he get the money? I’ll bet some of 
his former mistresses support him, Jenny Cadine or 
Josepha, perhaps.” 

The neiTOus trembling of Madame Hulot’s head in- 


452 


Cousin Bette, 


creased ; she wiped the tears from her eyes as she 
raised them sadly to heaven. 

“ I can not believe an officer of the Legion of honor 
would fall so low as that,” she said. 

‘‘For his own pleasure there is nothing he would 
not do,” said Lisbeth. “ He has robbed the State ; he 
would rob a friend, murder him, perhaps.” 

“Oh, Lisbeth!” cried the baroness, “ keep such 
thoughts to yourself” 

Just then Louise came toward the group of women, 
which the two little Hulots and little Wenceslas had 
joined to see if the pockets of their grandmother con- 
tained any sugarplums. 

“ What is it, Louise?” said Hortense. 

“ A man who wants Mademoiselle Fischer.” 

“ What sort of man ?” asked Lisbeth. 

“ Mademoiselle, he is in rags, and covered with 
horse-hair like a mattress-maker ; his nose is red, and 
he smells of brand}’, — he is one of those workmen 
who only work half the week.” 

This unattractive description had the effect of send- 
ing Lisbeth instantly to the courtyard, where she found 
the man smoking a pipe whose coloring denoted an 
adept in the arts of tobacco. 

“ What are you doing here, pere Chardin?” she said 
to him. “It was agreed that you should be at the 
hotel Marneffe, rue Barbet-de-Jouy on the first Satur- 
day of every month. I have just come from there, after 
waiting five hours for you.” ‘ 

“ I did start to go there, my good and charitable 
lady,” answered the maker of mattresses. “But you 
see there was a little game on hand at the cafe des 


Cousin Bette. 


453 


Savants, rue du Coeur-Volant. Ever}’ one has his pas- 
sion ; mine is for billiards. Without billiards I should 
do well enough, for — mark this ! ” he said, fumbling in 
the pocket of his tattered trousers, “ cafes lead to wine, 
and billiard-balls to brand}’, — ruinous, like all fine 
things, through their accessories. I knew my orders ; 
but the old man is in a tight place, so I came upon 
the forbidden ground. If the hair of our mattresses were 
all hair one could sleep on it ; but, you see, it ’s mixed. 
God is not for everybody, as they say ; he has his pref- 
erences — and he has a right to them. Here ’s the 
letter of your estimable cousin and the very good friend 
of a mattress-maker. That is in the line of his political 
professions ; ” and pere Chardin endeavored to trace a 
zigzag in the atmosphere with the forefinger of his 
right hand. 

Lisbeth, without listening to him, read the following 
two lines : — 

Dear Cousin, — Be my banker. Give me three hundred 
francs to-day. 

Hector. 

“ Why does he want so much money?” 

“ He?” said pere Chardin, still trying to draw aerial 
arabesques ; ‘ ‘ well, you see my son is back from Africa, 
through Spain, Bayonne, and — no, he did n’t steal any- 
thing, he never does steal, he ’s a sly dog, my son, — 
he ’ll return all he borrows ; he ’s got ideas that will 
carry him along — ” 

“To the police courts,” said Lisbeth. “He is my 
uncle’s murderer. I sha’n’t forget him.” 

“ He ! why, he could n’t kill a chicken, my good lady.” 

“ Here, take the three hundred francs,” said Lisbeth, 


454 


Cousin Bette, 


drawing fifteen gold pieces from her purse. “ Go away, 
and never come to this house again.’* 

She accompanied the father of the late Algerian store- 
keeper to the outer door and made the porter take a 
look at the old drunkard. 

“ Every time that man comes here, if he should come, 
3-0U are not to let him in and j^ou are to sa}" I am out. 
If he asks whether Monsieur Hulot, junior, or Madame 
la Baronne Hulot live here, say that you don’t know 
such persons.” 

“ Very well, mademoiselle.” 

“You will lose your place if any mistake occurs, even 
if it is accidental,” said the old maid in the porter’s 
ear. “ Cousin,” she said to Victorin who entered the 
house at that moment, “ you are threatened with a great 
misfortune.” 

“What is it?” 

“ Your wife is to have Madame Marneffe for a step- 
mother in a very few days.” 

“We shall see about that.” 

For the last six months Lisbeth had paid a little 
stipend to her old friend the baron, the secret of whose 
abode was known to her ; and she gloated over Ade- 
line’s tears, telling her, if by chance she found her gay 
and hopeful, “ We may expect some day to see my poor 
cousin’s name in the police reports.” But in this, as in 
her preceding efforts for revenge, she went too far. She 
roused Victorin’s caution. He determined to put an 
end to this sword of Damocles perpetually held by Lis- 
beth over the family head, and to the influence of the 
female devil to whom his mother and the whole family 
owed their sorrows. The Prince de Wissembourg, who 


Cousin Bette, 


455 


knew of Madame Marneffe’s conduct, lent his aid to 
the purpose. He promised Victorin, as the President 
of the Council of State can promise, that the police 
should secretly assist in opening Crevel’s eyes, and in 
saving a noble property from the clutches of the diabol- 
ical prostitute to whom, as he declared, he would never 
forgive the death of the old marshal, nor the total ruin 
and disgrace of the baron. 


456 


Cousin Bette. 


CHAPTEK XXXIIT. 

DEVILS AND ANGELS HARNESSED TO THE SAME CAR. 

Bette’s words, “ He gets money from his former mis- 
tresses,” kept the baroness awake all night. Like per- 
sons incurably ill who call in quacks, like others in the 
last depths of Dantesque despair, like drowning men 
who clutch at floating sticks, she ended by believing in 
a depravity the mere idea of which had scandalized 
her, and the thought came into her mind to appeal to 
one of those odious women. The next morning, with- 
out consulting her children, without a word to any one, 
she went to the house of Mademoiselle Josepha Mirah, 
now prima donna of the royal academy of music, in 
pursuit of a hope which danced before her mind like a 
will-o’-the-wisp. 

About midday the maid of the great singer brought 
her the card of the Baronne Hulot, sajing that the lady 
was waiting at the door to know if Mademoiselle would 
receive her. 

“ Is the salon in order?” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“ Are the flowers fresh?” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“ Tell Jean to give an eye all round and see that 
nothing’s amiss before he ushers the lady in, and to 
show her the utmost respect. Then come and dress 


Cousin Bette. 


457 


me, for I mean to be crushingly beautiful.” She went 
to the psyche and looked at herself. “ Now to array 
myself! ” she said. “ Vice must be under arms before 
virtue. Poor woman, what can she want of me? I 
don’t quite like to meet ‘ of sorrow the august victim ” 
and she sang that celebrated air, ending it as her maid 
re-entered the room. 

“Madame,” said the woman, “the lady trembles 
violently.” 

“ Offer her something, — orange-flower, rum, soup.” 

“ I did, madame, but she refused them all ; she sa3’s 
it is only a little infirmit}*, a nervous affection.” 

“ Where is she? ” 

“ In the large salon.” 

“ Make haste, child. Give me my prettiest slippers, 
and that morning-gown Bijou embroidered ; the one 
with the ripples of lace. Dress my hair in a way to as- 
tonish a woman just the opposite of me. And send 
word to the lady (for she ’s a great lad}', my girl, and 
something better, something you ’ll never be, a woman 
whose prayers will get souls out of purgatory) send her 
word that I was in bed, that I sang last night, but that 
I am getting up.” 

The baroness, ushered into the grand salon of Jose- 
pha’s apartment, did not observe how long she was kept 
waiting, though it was really more than half an hour. 
This salon, the furniture and decorations of which had 
already been changed since Josepha’s installation, was 
now draped in silks, of a color then called massaca^ 
shot with gold. The luxury which great lords of the 
olden time displayed in the houses of their mistresses, 
of which so many relics remain to the present day, tes- 


458 


Cousin Bette, 


tifying to the “ follies ” which justified their name, was 
here shown to perfection by the aid of modern methods 
in the four communicating rooms, held at a delightful 
temperature by a heating apparatus with invisible open- 
ings. The baroness, bewildered, examined the works of 
art with amazement. She saw how fortunes were 
melted in the pot when pleasure and vanit}^ lit the fires 
beneath it. The woman who for twenty-six years had 
lived amid the barren relics of imperial luxury, whose 
eyes were accustomed to threadbare carpets, tarnished 
gilding, faded stuffs, — as faded and worn as her own 
heart, — now realized the power of the seductions of vice 
as her ej^es rested on its results. It was impossible not 
to env}^ these beautiful things, these splendid creations 
which the great unknown artists who make Paris what 
it is, — the centre of European production, — had all 
contributed. Here, the perfection of the unique thing 
was the surprising charm. The models having been 
destroyed, the groups, the figurines, the carvings were 
original and could never be reproduced. This is the 
highest reach of luxury in the present day. To possess 
things that are not vulgarized by two thousand opulent 
shopkeepers, who think the}^ sh6w their elegance when 
they display the costly articles which they buy for gold, 
is the sign of true luxury, the luxury of the modern 
great lords, the ephemeral stars of the Parisian firma- 
ment. As the baroness examined the flower-baskets, 
decorated in the style called Boule, and fllled with rare 
exotics, she became, as it were, afraid of all the wealth 
the room contained. Such profusion must, she thought, 
react upon the person who lived in the midst of it. 
Adeline felt that Josepha Mirah, whose portrait painted 


Cousin Bette, 


459 


by Joseph Bridau shone from the adjoining boudoir, 
was a woman of genius, a Malibran, and she expected 
to see a t3’pe of the true “ lionne.’’ She regretted hav- 
ing come. And yet she was urged onward by feelings 
so powerful and so natural, b}" a sentiment, a self-devo- 
tion so disinterested, that she gathered up her courage 
to endure the interview. Besides, she was about to sat- 
isfy the curiosit}" which beset her to know the charm by 
which this class of women extract such masses of metal 
from the miserty strata of the Parisian gold-fields. The 
baroness looked at herself in a mirror, to see if she 
were out of place in the midst of all this luxury ; but 
her velvet robe with its point-lace collar had an air of 
dignity, and a velvet bonnet of the same color as the 
dress became her. Feeling that she was still regally 
imposing, a queen in adversit}^, the thought crossed 
her mind that the majest}’ of sorrow was even greater 
than the majestj^ of talent. 

Three or four doors seemed to open and shut and 
then she beheld Jos4pha. The great singer was like 
the Judith of Allori, a picture that clings to the memory 
of every one who has ever noticed it close to the door 
of the grand sala in the Pitti Palace ; she had the same 
proud attitude, the same grand face, the same black 
hair twisted round her head without adornment, and a 
yellow robe with embroidered flowers, of a brocade pre- 
cisely like that in which the nephew of Bronzino draped 
his great conception of the immortal murderess. 

“ Madame la baronne, I am confounded b}^ the honor 
3"ou have done me in coming here,” said the prima donna, 
determined to play her part with dignity. 

She drew forward an armchair for the baroness and 


460 


Cousin Bette. 


took a folding-stool for herself. Her e3’e detected the 
vanished beauty of the woman before her, and she was 
seized with pit}' as she noticed the nervous trembling 
which Adeline’s present emotion rendered almost con- 
vulsive. She read at a glance the saintlj" life that Hulot 
and Crevel had sometimes pictured ; and not only did 
she instantly lose all idea of opposition to this woman, 
but she humiliated herself in spirit before a grandeur 
she was able to comprehend. The noble nature of the 
artist admired what the courtesan might ridicule. 

“ Mademoiselle, I am brought here bj’ a sorrow which 
leads me to have recourse to every means — ” 

Josepha’s gesture made the baroness aware that she 
had tactlessl}^ wounded one from whom she hoped so 
much, and she looked at the singer. That supplicating 
glance extinguished the flame in Josepha’s e^^es, which 
began to smile. The little scene had the painful elo- 
quence of a silent duel between the two women. 

“It is now two years and a half since Monsieur 
Hulot left his family, and we do not know where he is, 
though I think he is in Paris,” began the baroness, in a 
trembling voice. “ A dream has given me an idea, ab- 
surd perhaps, that }^ou ma^’ have interested j'ourself in 
his behalf. If ^^ou could put me in the wa}’ to find Mon- 
sieur Hulot — ah. Mademoiselle ! I would pray God for 
3'ou to the end of my daj^s.” 

Two large tears rolled from the singer’s eyes. 

“ Madame,” she said, in a tone of deep humility, “ I 
did you harm when I did not know 3’ou ; but now that 
I have the happiness of seeing in you the noblest image 
of virtue on this earth, believe me, I understand the 
nature of the wrong I did, and I repent sincerelj’. 


Cousin Bette. 


461 


Therefore, rely on me to do all in my power to repair 
it.” 

She took Madame Hulot’s hand and kissed it respect- 
fully before the latter could prevent her, and even went 
so far as to humbly bend her knee. Then she rose with 
the same proud air with which she stepped upon the 
stage as Mathilde, and rang the bell. 

“ Take a horse,” she said to the footman, “ and ride, 
full speed, to that little Bijou in the rue Saint-Maur du 
Temple and send her here ; put her in a cab and pay 
the coachman double fare to press his horses. Don ’t 
lose a minute, or I dismiss j-ou. Madame,” she con- 
tinued, returning to the baroness and speaking in tones 
of deep respect, ‘ ‘ you must forgive me. As soon as 
the Due d’Herouville became my protector I sent the 
baron back to you, because I learned that he was ruining 
his family for my sake. Could I do more than that? 
In a theatrical career a protector is absolutely necessaiy 
to us when we first make our debut. Our salary does 
not cover one half our expenses and we are forced to 
take temporary husbands. I did not care for Monsieur 
Hulot, who took me from a stupid and conceited rich 
man, old Crevel, who would certainty have married 
me — ” 

“ He told me so,” said the baroness, interrupting the 
singer. 

“ Well, you see, madame, I might have been an 
honest woman to-day, with a legal husband — ” 

“ You have many excuses, mademoiselle,” said the 
baroness ; “ God will consider them. As for me, far 
from reproaching 3’ou, I have come here to contract 
a debt of gratitude toward 3’ou.” 


462 


Cousin Bette, 


“Madame, I did provide about three years ago' for 
Monsieur Hulot.” 

“ You!” cried the baroness, with tears in her eyes, 
“Ah! what would I not do for you? I can only 
pray — ” 

“I and the Due d'Herouville, — a man of noble 
heart, a true gentleman,” said Josepha. 

She related the establishment in business and the 
semi-marriage of Monsieur Thoul. 

“ And so, mademoiselle, thanks to you, my husband 
has not been starved and wretched ? ” 

“We endeavored to prevent it, madame.” 

“ Where is he now? ” 

“ Monsieur le due told me about six months ago that 
the baron, known to the duke’s notar}' under the name of 
Thoul, had used up the eight thousand francs which were 
paid to him in quarterly instalments,” answered Jose- 
pha, “ Since then neither I nor Monsieur d’Herouville 
have heard anything about him. Life among my set of 
people is so busy, so distracting, that I have had no time 
to look after pere Thoul. It so happens that for the 
last six months Bijou, my embroiderer and his — what 
shall I say?” 

“ His mistress,” said Madame Hulot. 

“ His mistress,” continued Josepha, “ has not been 
here. Mademoiselle Olympe may have been divorced ; 
I should n’t wonder, — divorce is not infrequent in our 
circles.” 

Josepha rose, looked among the rare plants in the 
windows, and gathered a lovely bouquet for the baron- 
ess, whose expectations in regard to the singer were 
much at fault. Like the respectable middle -classes who 


Cousin Bette, 


463 


believe that men of genius are monsters, walking about 
and eating, drinking, and speaking unlike other men, 
so the baroness expected to find Josepha the fascinator, 
Josepha the prima donna, the brilliant courtesan. In- 
stead of that she found a calm and quiet woman, pos- 
sessing the dignity of her talent, the simplicity of an 
actress who knows that she reigns at night, and better 
still, one who paid b}’ her looks, her attitude and her man- 
ners full and complete homage to the virtuous woman, 
to the Mater Dolorosa of the sacred hymn. 

“ Madame,” said the footman, returning at the end 
of half an hour, “Bijou’s mother is coming at once; 
but it is doubtful about Olympe. She is married — ” 

“ By the left hand?” asked Josepha. 

“No, madame, really married. She is at the head 
of a splendid establishment ; she is married to the pro- 
prietor of a great shop on the boulevard des Italiens, 
and has left her own place to her mother and sisters. 
Her name is Madame Grenouville. The old shop- 
keeper — ” 

“ACrevel?” 

“ Yes, madame,” said the footman; “the marriage 
contract states that he is worth thirty thousand francs 
a year.” 

“ This is against j^our interests, madame,” said the 
singer. I foresee that the baron is no longer where I 
settled him.” 

Ten minutes later Madame Bijou was shown in. Jose- 
pha, as a matter of precaution, made Madame Hulot go 
into her boudoir, across the door of which she drew the 
portiere. 

“The sight of 3'ou would frighten her,” said the 


464 


Cousin Bette, 


singer ; “ she would not let out anything if she thought 
you were interested in it. I will confess her. Hide in 
there ; you will hear all. This sort of thing is quite com- 
mon among theatrical people, — Well, mere Bijou,” 
said Josepha to an old woman wrapped in a stuff called 
“tartan,” who resembled a charwoman out for a Sun- 
day in her best clothes, “ I suppose you are very 
happy; 3’our daughter is in luck?” 

“Ho! happy! — my daughter gives me a hundred 
francs a month ; she drives in her carriage and feeds 
off* silver ; and I do say she ought to have put me 
above want. To have to toil at my age ! — is that 
happy?” 

“ She is very wrong to be ungrateful, for she owes her 
beauty’ to you,” returned Josepha. “ But why did n’t 
she come to see me ? It was I who put her above want 
by manying her to m3’ uncle.” 

“ Yes, madame, pere Thoul. But he is so ver3’ old 
and broken — ” 

“ What have 3’ou done with him? Is he still living 
with 3’ou? She did ver3’ wrong to leave him, — he is 
now worth millions.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed the old woman, “ that’s 
what we always told her when she behaved so badly 
to him. He was kindness itself, poor old fellow ! Ah ! 
did n’t she make him step round ! Olympe was cor- 
rupted, madame.” 

“ By whom? ” 

“Well, she picked up — saving your presence — a 
claqueur, the nephew of an old mattress-maker in the 
faubourg Saint-Marceau, — a do-nothing, like all good- 
looking fellows ; the pet of the boulevard du Temple, 


Cousin Bette. 


465 


where he claps the new pieces and looks after the en- 
trees of the actresses, as he says. In the morning he 
drinks brandy ; he loves liquors and billiards by inher- 
itance. I told 013'mpe such a trade as that was n’t to 
be relied on.” 

“ Unfortunatel}”, it is a trade,” said Josepha. 

“Well, she lost her head about the fellow, who, to 
tell the truth, madame, did n’t keep good compan}’. He 
came near being aiTested in a drinking shop among 
thieves ; but Monsieur Braulard, the head of the claque, 
got him off. The rascal wears gold ear-rings, and lives 
by doing nothing, hanging on to women who are fools 
about handsome men. He squandered the money pere 
Thoul gave Olympe. The business went wrong ; all 
she earned went for billiards. Besides this, the scamp 
had a prett}’ sister, who followed the same trade as the 
brother, — a jade in the Latin quarter — ” 

“A lorette of the Chaumiere,” said Josepha. 

“ Yes, just so, madame,” said Madame Bijou. “ So, 
Idamore — he calls himself Idamore, though his name 
is Chardin — thought 3’our uncle had more monej" than 
he said he had, and he managed, without m}^ daughter 
knowing it, to send his sister Elodie to our place as 
workwoman. Heavens ! she soon turned things topsy- 
turv3\ She corrupted the poor girls, who are now — - 
saving your presence — brutalized, and she carried off 
old pere Thoul for herself and put him — we don’t know 
where ; which was ver^" inconvenient for us on account 
of the bills. As soon as Idamore secured the old man 
for his sister he deserted Olympe for a little actress at 
the Funambules ; and that brought about my daughter’s 
marriage, as you ’ll see — ” 

30 


466 


Cousin Bette, 


“Do you know where the mattress-maker lives?” 
asked Josepha. 

“Old Chardin? lives? He doesn’t live anywhere! 
He is drunk at six in the morning ; he makes one mat- 
tress a mouth, and spends the rest of his time in low 
wine-shops, playing billiards. His son Idamore is one 
of those fellows who is bound to go to a police court, 
and from there to a prison, and then — ” 

“ To the galleys,” added Josepha. 

“ Ah I I see madame knows all,” said mere Bijou, 
smiling. “ If my daughter had only understood that 
man, she — she would — But, as 3 ’ou say, she’s been 
luck}", anyhow ; Monsieur Grenouville fell enough in 
love to marr}" her — ” 

“ How did the marriage come about?” 

“ Through 01ym.pe’s despair. When she found she 
was deserted fol* the actress (whom she pounded to a 
mummy — goodness I did n’t she belabor her !) and that 
she’d lost pere Thoul, who adored her, she talked of 
renouncing men. About that time Monsieur Grenou- 
ville, who buys a deal of us, — sometimes two hundred 
embroidered China crape scarfs every three months, — 
wanted to console her ; but no, — she would n’t listen 
to anything without the church and the mayor. ‘ I 
mean to be virtuous,’ she kept saying, ‘or I’ll die.’ 
And she kept her word. At last Monsieur Grenouville 
agreed to marry her if she would break with us, and we 
consented.” 

“ For a consideration?” said the shrewd Josepha. 

“Yes, madame; ten thousand francs, and an annu- 
ity for my father, who is too old to work.” 

“ I begged your daughter to make pere Thoul happy, 


Cousin Bette, 


467 


and she has flung him into the mud. She had no right 
to do it. I ’ll never interest myself in anjbody again. 
That ’s the result of doing a benevolent deed. Benev- 
olence is only good for something when it is a specu- 
lation. Olympe might at least have told me of all this 
jugglery. If j’ou And out for me where pere Thoul is, 
within a fortnight, I ’ll give j’ou a thousand francs.” 

“That’ll be difficult, my dear lady; but there’s a 
good many five- franc pieces in a thousand francs, and 
I ’ll do my best to earn them.” 

“ Adieu, Madame Bijou.” 

When Josepha entered the boudoir she found Ma- 
dame Hulot in a dead faint; and yet, though the poor 
woman’s senses were gone, the nervous trembling still 
continued, — like the halves of an adder cut in two, 
which still writhe and quiver. Strong salts, cold water, 
and all the ordinary restoratives soon recalled the bar- 
oness to life, or, it were truer to say, to a sense of her 
misery. 

“ Ah, mademoiselle, to what depths he has fallen ! ” 
she said, recognizing the actress, and seeing that she 
was alone with her. 

“ Take courage, madame,” replied Josepha, who was 
sitting on a cushion at Madame Hulot’s feet, and now 
kissed her hands ; “ we shall find him ; and if he is in 
the mire, — well, he can be cleansed. Believe me, when 
a man has been well brought up his restoration is only a 
matter of clothes. Let me repair the wrongs I have done 
3’ou ; I see bj^ 3’our coming here how deepl3' 3’ou must 
be attached to your husband, in spite of my conduct. 
Ah ! poor man, he loves women. If you could onl3’ 
have had a little of our chique you might have kept 


468 


CouBin Bette, 


him from running after them ; you would have been 
what we know how to be, — all women in one to a 
man. The government ought to create a school for 
virtuous wives ; but governments are so strait-laced, — ^ 
and 3’et they are managed by the veiy men we manage ! 
For m3" part, I pity the country. But the question is 
to help you in 3 0ur trouble, not to make fun of things. 
Well, do not be anxious, madame ; go home and rest. 
I will return the baron to 3'ou as lively as though he 
were thirt3" 3"ears old.” 

“ Mademoiselle, let us go and see that Madame 
Grenouville, she may know something ; perhaps I could 
find Monsieur Hulot this very day and rescue him at 
once from povert3" — and shame.” 

‘^Madame, how can I express the gratitude I feel for 
the honor 3"ou do me. I respect 3"ou far too much to 
allow 3’ou to be seen in public with me. This is not a 
pretence of humilit3", it is a homage which I render 
to you. Ah, madame, 3’ou make me regret that I can- 
not follow your wdy of life, in spite of the thorns which 
lacerate your feet and hands ! but it cannot be helped 
— I belong to art as 3'ou belong to virtue.” 

“ Poor girl ! ” said the baroness, moved, in the midst 
of her own miser3", to a strange feeling of commiserating 
sympath3". “ I will pra3^ God to help you, for you are 
the victim of societ3". When old age comes, turn to 
repentance ; you will be forgiven if God deigns to hear 
the pra3"er of — ” 

“ — a martyr, madame,” said Josepha, kissing Ma- 
dame Hulot’s dress respectfully. 

But Adeline took the singer's hand, drew her 
towards her and kissed her on the forehead. Blush- 


Cousin Bette, 


469 


ing with pleasure, Josepha led Madame Hulot to her 
carriage with an almost servile demeanor. 

“That’s some charitable lady,” said the footman to 
the lady’s maid, “ for she is never like that to anybod}’, 
not even to her dear friend Madame Jenny Cadine.” 

“Wait patiently a few days, madame,” said Josepha 
as she parted from Madame Hulot, “ and you shall see 
him, or I will deny the God of my fathers — and that is 
a good deal for a Jewess to say.” 

At the hour when the baroness made her visit to 
Josepha, an old woman about seventy-five years of age 
was ushered into Victorin’s study, having used the ter- 
rible name of the chief of police to obtain access to the 
distinguished lawyer and deput3\ The footman an- 
nounced, “Madame de Saint-Esteve.” 

“I have taken one of my aliases,” she said, seating 
herself. 

Victorin shuddered inwardly, so to speak, on seeing 
the hideous old woman. Though richlj" dressed, she 
appalled him by the signs of cold wickedness that lay 
on her flat, wrinkled, pallid, and muscular face. Marat, 
if a woman and of her age, would have been like the 
Saint-Esteve, a living image of the Terror. The san- 
guinary appetites of a tiger gleamed in her small 3'el- 
low eyes. The flattened nose, with the nostrils widened 
into oval cavities, belching the smoke of hell, suggested 
the beak of a bird of pre}". The genius of intrigue sat 
enthroned on the low, cruel brow. Straggling hairs 
pushing up in the hollows of the face proclaimed the 
masculine instincts of her nature. Those who took note 
of this woman might well have doubted whether painters 
had ever truly represented the face of Mephistopheles. 


470 


Cousin Bette, 


“ My dear monsieur,” she said in a patronizing tone, 
“ I have long ceased to meddle with private affairs, and 
what I now do for you is really out of consideration for 
my dear nephew, whom I love better than if he were 
my own son. Now the prefect of police, in whose ear 
the president of the Council has whispered a word or 
two about your wishes, told Monsieur Chapuzot that the 
police had better not appear in an affair of this kind. 
So they have given carte blanche to my nephew, the 
head of the detective force ; but my nephew only acts 
for the Council, and must not compromise himself.” 

“ Then you are the aunt of Vautrin?” 

“ You are right, and I am rather proud of it,” she re- 
plied, “ for he is my own pupil, a pupil who soon made 
himself a master. He and I have studied your affair, 
and we think well of it. Will you give thirty thousand 
francs to put an end to the whole affair? You needn’t 
pa}^ till the thing is done.” 

“You know the persons? ” 

“No, my dear monsieur, I await your instructions. 
All we know is what they ’ve told us, — that an old 
boob}" has got into the hands of a widow ; that the 
widow, twenty-nine years old, has thieved so well that 
she has secured an income of forty thousand francs out 
of two fathers of families ; that she ’s now on the point 
of swallowing up eighty thousand a year more by mar- 
rying a man sixty-one years of age and ruining a worthy 
family ; and will soon no doubt get rid of the old hus- 
band and give his immense property to the child of some 
lover. That ’s the tale as I heard it.” 

“ Quite correct,” said Victorin. “ My father-in-law, 
Monsieur Crevel — ” 


Cousin Bette, 


471 


“ Ex-perfumer and mayor; 3^es, I live in his arron- 
dissement, under the name of Madame Nourrisson.” 

“ The other person is Madame Marneffe.” 

“ Don't know her,” said Madame de Saint-Esteve, 
“ but in three days I shall be able to count her chemises.” 
“ Can 3’ou prevent the marriage? ” 

“ How far has it gone? ” 

“ The banns have been twice published.” 

“ We ought to kidnap the woman. It is now Sun- 
day ; that leaves onl^’ three daj’s. Of course they ’ll be 
married Wednesda}^, — no, it’s impossible to carrj^ her 
off in that time. But we can kill her — ” 

Victorin Hulot started, as a man of honor would at 
hearing such words said in cold blood. 

“ Kill her ! ” he exclaimed, what do 3’ou mean?” 
“For forty 3^ears, monsieur, we have stood in the 
shoes of destin3%” she said with dreadful pride ; “ we do 
what we choose in Paris. Man3" a family — and in the 
faubourg Saint-Germain, too — has told me its secrets, 
I have made man3'^ marriages ; I have torn up many 
wills ; I have saved many reputations. I hold, penned 
up there,” she continued, tapping her forehead, “ a flock 
of secrets that stand me in thirt3^ thousand francs a 
3"ear; 3^ou ma3^ be one of m3^ lambs, if you like. A 
woman of my kind would n’t be what I am if she talked 
about her means of action, — she acts ; I act. All that 
happens, m3" dear sir, will be accidental, — you will not 
feel the slightest remorse. You will be like persons 
cured by somnambulists, who think at the end of a 
month that nature did it all.” 

Victorin was in a cold sweat. The sight of the hang- 
man would have moved him less than this pretentious 


472 


Cousin Bette, 


and sententious daughter of the galleys ; the sight of 
her dress, color of the dregs of wine, made him fancy 
she was swathed in blood. 

“ Madame, I shall not accept the help of yoxir expe- 
rience and of your active services if success is to cost a 
life, or if it involves any criminal deed whatsoever.” 

‘‘You are nothing but a big child, monsieur,” re- 
sponded Madame de Saint-Esteve. “ You wish to stay 
honorable in your own eyes, and yet you want to get the 
better of your enem}’.” 

Victorin made a gesture of denial. 

“Yes,” she replied, “3"ou want Madame Marneffe 
to drop the pre}^ she has got in her jaws. How can 
you force a tiger to let go his bit of flesh? b}’ pass- 
ing your hand down his back and saying, ‘ puss}’, 
pussy’? You are not logical. You order a fight, but 
3’ou don’t want an3" wounds. Well, I’ll make 3’ou a 
present of the innocence 3’ou are so fond of. For m3’ 
part, I ’ve alwa3"s seen the threads of h3’pocris3' in the 
garments of decenc3^ Some da3’, about three months 
hence, a poor priest will come and ask you for fort3' 
thousand francs for a pious work, say a convent in the 
Levant or in a desert. If 3'ou are then satisfied with 
what has happened give him the mone3’, — it won’t be 
much, considering all it will bring 3’ou in.” 

She rose to her large feet, incased in satin shoes, with 
the flesh puffing over their edges, smiled as she bowed 
to the law3’er and retired. 

“ The devil has a sister,” said Victorin, rising. 

He followed the horrible creature, who §eemed evoked 
from the lairs of detective inquisition as a fiend is called 
up by the wand of a fairy in a pantomine through the 


Cousin Bette. 


4T3 


trap door at the opera house. When his business at the 
Palais was over for the day, Victorin went to Monsieur 
Chapuzot, the head of a department at the prefecture 
of police, to obtain some information about this mj's- 
terious woman. Finding the chief alone in his ofiice, 
Hulot thanked him for his services. 

“ You sent me,” he said, “ an old woman who may 
be said to personify Paris in its criminal aspect.” 

Monsieur Chapuzot took off his spectacles, laid them 
on his papers, and looked at the lawyer with an aston- 
ished air. 

“ I should not have presumed to send any one, no 
matter whom, without giving 3 ’ou due notice, or without 
a written line of introduction,” he said. 

“ Then it must have been Monsieur le pr^fet.” 

“ I don’t think so,” said Chapuzot. “ The last time 
the Prince de Wissembourg dined with the minister of 
the Interior he saw the prefect, and spoke to him of 3 ’our 
unfortunate position, and asked him to be so kind as to 
come to your assistance. Monsieur le prefet, much in- 
terested by what his Excellency* told him, was so good 
as to consult me in the matter. Ever since the prefect 
took the reins of this administration (which is so calum- 
niated and 3 *et so useful) he has set his face against in- 
terfering in family* affairs. He is right in principle and 
in morality ; practically* he is all wrong. The police, 
during the forty-five y*ears that I have been in it, ren- 
dered immense services to private families from 1799 to 
1815. Since 1820 the press and the constitutional gov- 
ernment have totally* changed the conditions of its ex- 
istence. Consequently my* advice, when the prefect 
asked it, was not to meddle in such a matter as y*ours. 


474 


Cousin Bette, 


and Monsieur le prefet was good enough to 3’ield to my 
opinion. The chief of the detective police received in 
my presence an order not to take an}’ steps in the mat- 
ter ; if he has taken any, I shall reprimand him. It 
would be almost a case for dismissal. People say ‘ The 
police will do this, that, or the other ’ — ‘ the police ! the 
police ! ’ But, my dear sir, the Marechal and the Coun- 
cil of ministers are ignorant of what the police really is. 
None but the police can understand the police. The old 
kings, Napoleon, and Louis XVIII. did understand 
theirs ; but as for ours, no one but Fouche, or Mon- 
sieur Lenoir, Monsieur de Sartines, and a few prefects, 
men of intelligence, had any inkling of what it is. Now- 
adays all is changed ; we are hampered and cut down. 
I have seen many family misfortunes which we could 
have prevented with five grains of interference. We 
shall be regretted by the very men who have destroyed 
us when they find themselves, as you are now, face to 
face with moral monstrosities which must be cleared 
away just as we clear away the mud in the streets. In 
politics the police is supposed to prevent crime so long 
as it concerns the public weal ; but the welfare of fami- 
lies is another matter, the family is sacred ! I may do 
all I can to discover and prevent an attempt upon the 
life of the king ; I can even make the walls of houses 
transparent ; but put my claws into private families and 
meddle with private interests — no, not so long as I 
hold my oflSce, for I am afraid — ” 

“ Afraid of what? ” 

“Of the press ! Monsieur the deputy of the Left 
centre.” 

“ What am I to do? ” resumed Victorin after a pause. 


Cousin Bette^ 


475 


‘‘ Hey, 5’ou call yourselves the representatives of the 
Family,” said the chief, “ act accordingly ; do as 3’ou 
think you ought to do ; but don’t ask us to help jou, 
don’t make the police the tool of passions and personal 
interests.” 

“ But in my position — ” began Hulot. 

“You surely don’t want me to advise j^ou, my dear 
lawj^er, you who live by giving legal advice. No, no, 
3"Ou are only joking — ” 

Victorin bowed and left the functionary, not observing 
the slight shrug of that official’s shoulders as he rose to 
show him out, “ And that man expects to be a states- 
man ! ” said the chief to himself, as he resumed his 
spectacles. 

Victorin returned home, his perplexities on his back 
and not able to confide them to any one. At dinner the 
baroness announced jo^^fully that in a month’s time their 
father would return to share their comfort and end his 
days peacefully in the bosom of his family. 

“I’d give my whole income to see him back,” cried 
Lisbeth; “but, my dear Adeline, I do beg 3^ou not to 
count on such happiness.” 

“ Bette is right,” said Celestine ; “let us wait till it 
happens, dear mother.” 

The baroness, all heart and hope, related her visit to 
Josepha, told how such women were unhappy in their 
happiness, and spoke of Chardin, the father of the store- 
keeper at Oran, to prove that she was not indulging a 
false hope. 

The next morning by seven o’clock Lisbeth was driving 
in a hackney-coach along the quai de la Tournelle. At 
the corner of the rue de Poissy she stopped the carriage. 


476 


Cousin Bette. 


“ Go to the rue des Bernardins/’ she said to the driver, 
“ number seven ; it is a house with an alley- wa}", and 
there ’s no porter’s lodge. Go up to the fourth story and 
ring the bell of the left-hand door, on which j^ou will see 
the words, ‘ Mademoiselle Chardin, mender of laces 
and cashmeres.’ Ask for Hhe chevalier J They will 
reply, ‘ He is out.’ You will then say, ‘ I know that, 
but you must find him, for his maid is in a coach on 
the quay and wants to see him.’ ” 

Twenty minutes later an old man who seemed about 
eighty years of age, with snow-white hair, a nose 
reddened by the cold in a pallid face which was 
wrinkled like that of an old woman, dragging his feet, 
covered with old list slippers, as he walked with a bent 
back, and dressed in a shirt of suspicious color and 
a threadbare alpaca overcoat, without decoration, the 
sleeves of a knitted jacket appearing at the wrists, came 
timidly along the pavement, looked at the coach, recog- 
nized Lisbeth, and stopped before her. 

“ My dear cousin,” she said to him, “what a state 
you are in ! ” 

“6lodie takes everything for herself,” said Baron 
Hulot. “ Those Chardins are grasping brutes.” 

“ Do you want to return home? ” 

“ Oh no, no ! ” said the old man ; “ I want to go to 
America.” 

“ Adeline is on your track.” 

“Ah! if they would only pay my debts,” said the 
baron, suspiciously. “ Samanon is after me.” 

“We have not yet paid off the old notes ; your sou 
still owes a hundred thousand francs on them — ” 

“ Poor boy I ” 


Cousin Bette* 


477 


“ And your pension won’t be free for seven or eight 
months. If you can wait till then I have two thousand 
francs — ” 

The baron held out his hands with an eager gesture, 
frightful to see. 

“ Give it me, Lisbeth ! God will reward you ! Give 
it me ! I know where to go.” 

“ But you must tell me where, you old monster.” 

“ Yes, I can wait eight months, for I have discovered 
a little angel, a good child, innocent, not old enough to 
' be depraved.” 

“ You will get into the police-courts,” said Lisbeth, 
expressing her inmost wish. 

“She lives in the rue de Charonne,” said Hulot, “a 
quarter where nothing makes a scandal. Nobod}’ will 
ever find me there. I am disguised, Lisbeth, as pere 
Thorec ; I ’m an old worker in ebony. The little girl 
loves me ; and I sha’n’t have the fleece plucked off my 
back any more.” 

“No, it’s done already!” said Lisbeth, with a 
glance at the alpaca overcoat. “ Shall I drive you 
there, cousin?” 

The baron got into the coach, abandoning Made- 
moiselle Elodie without a word of farewell, as we throw 
aside a finished novel. 

In half an hour, during which time the baron talked 
of nothing but the little Atala Judici, — for he had 
reached by degrees those awful passions which are 
the destruction of old men, — Bette deposited him, 
supplied with the two thousand francs, at the door of 
a suspicious and dangerous-looking house in the rue 
de Charonne, faubourg Saint Antoine. 


478 


Cousin Bette. 


‘‘Good-by, cousin; I'm to call you pere Thorec, am 
I not? Send no one after me but the street-porters, 
and take them always from different stands.” 

“ So be it ! Oh ! I 'm so happy ! ” cried the baron, 
his face illuminated wittrthe joy of coming happiness. 

“ He won’t be found there, in that house,” said Lis- 
beth, to herself, as she stopped her coach on the boule- 
vard Beaumarchais, where she took an omnibus and 
returned to the rue Louis-le-Grand. 


Cousin Bette, 


479 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

VENGEANCE IN PURSUIT OF VALERIE. 

Crevel paid a visit to his children the next day, just 
as they were assembled in the salon after breakfast. 
Celestine threw herself into her father’s arms, and be- 
haved to him as if he had been there the evening before, 
whereas it was the first visit he had paid her in two years. 

“ Good-morning, father,” said Victorin, holding out 
his hand. 

“ Good-morning, ray children,” said Crevel, pom- 
pously. ‘ ‘ Madame la baronne, I lay my homage at 
your feet. Heavens ! how those children grow ; they 
drive us off the field, — as good as saying, ‘ Come 
Grandpa, I want my place in the sun.’ Madame la 
comtesse, as beautiful as ever ! ” he added, looking 
at Hortense ; “and here’s the last of our treasures, 
my cousin Bette, the wise virgin. Wh^", how well 
you. are situated here ! ” he continued, after distribut- 
ing his little speeches to every one, followed by loud 
laughs which shook the heavy masses of his rubicund 
cheeks. 

He looked rather contemptuously round his daughter’s 
salon. 

“ My dear Celestine, I will give you all the furni- 
ture of m}^ house in the rue des Saussayes ; it will do 
very well here. Your salon needs refurbishing. Ah ! 
there ’s that little monkey, Wenceslas ! Well, well ! are 


480 


Cousin Bette. 


we pretty good children ? We must be good if we want 
to be happy.” 

“ Have you tried it?” asked Bette. 

“ That sarcasm, my dear Lisbeth, has no longer any 
point for me. I ’m about to put an end, m}’ dear chil- 
dren, to the folse position which I have held for so 
long ; and like a good father I have come to announce 
my marriage to you frankly.” 

“ You have a perfect right to marr}’,” said Victo- 
rin ; and for my part, I give you back the promise 
you made when you gave me the hand of my dear 
Celestine.” 

“ What promise?” demanded Crevel. 

“ Not to marry,” replied the lawyer. “ You will do 
me the justice to remember that I never asked 3'ou for 
it, and that 3'ou gave it voluntaril}’’, in spite of my tell- 
ing you at the time that j^ou ought not to bind yourself 
in that way.” 

“ Yes, I do remember, my dear friend,” said Cre- 
vel, abashed. “And now, on my word of honor, m3’ 
dear children, if you will live happil3’ with Madame 
Crevel you shall never repent it. Your delicac3’, Vic- 
torin, touches me deepl3’ ; no one is ever generous to 
me without return. Come, welcome 3’our mother-in- 
law cordially ; be present, all of you, at the marriage.” 

“ You have not 3’et told us the name of the bride, 
father,” said Celestine. 

“ Wh3% that’s the ke3’-note of the comedy,” replied 
Crevel. “Don’t let’s pla3’ at hide-and-go-seek. Lis- 
beth must have told you — ” 

“ My dear Monsieur Crevel,” interposed Bette, “ there 
are names which must not be uttered in this liouse.” 


Cousin Bette, 481 

“Well, then, I myself tell you it is Madame Mar- 
neffe.” 

“ Monsieur Crevel,” said the lawyer, sternl}^ “ neither 
I nor my wife can be present at that marriage, — not 
from motives of injured self-interest, for I have spoken 
sincerely on that point ; but from other considerations 
of honor and delicacy, which you will surely under- 
stand, though I cannot express them, because they 
would reopen wounds which are still bleeding.” 

The baroness made a sign to the countess, who took 
her child in her arms, saying, “Come and take 3’our 
bath, Wenceslas. Adieu, Monsieur Crevel.” 

The baroness bowed to the ma3’Or in silence, and Cre- 
vel could not forbear smiling as he noticed the astonish- 
ment of the child thus menaced with an unexpected bath. 

“You are marr3dng, monsieur,” said Victorin, when 
he and his wife and Crevel and Lisbeth were alone, 
“a woman who has inained m3" father and coldty and 
deliberatel3" made him what he now is, — a woman who 
is the mistress of the son-in-law, after being that of 
the father, — who has caused m3' sister deadly grief ; 
and 3’ou expect that we shall sanction 3'our madness by 
our presence. I pit3" 3*ou sincerel3', my dear Monsieur 
Crevel ; you have no sense of the ties of famil3' ; you 
do not comprehend the union of honor in which the 
members of a family hold together. One cannot argue 
(I know it to my cost) with the passions. Men in the 
grasp of passion are as deaf as they are blind. Your 
daughter Celestine has too deep a sense of her duty to 
utter one word of blame for 3'ou — ” 

“ A pretty state of things if she did,” interposed Cre- 
vel, trying to cut short the lecture. 

31 


482 


Cousin Bette. 


“ Celestine would not be my wife if she reproached 
you,” continued the lawyer. “ But as for me, I shall 
endeavor to stop you before you step into the gulf, — 
especially after showing you my disinterestedness. It 
is not your fortune, but yourself, that I am thinking 
of. And to make my sentiments perfectly clear to you, 
I will add, if only to relieve your mind in framing your 
marriage contract, that my financial position is now 
such that we have nothing further to desire.” 

“ Thanks to me!” exclaimed Crevel, whose face be- 
came purple. 

“ Thanks to Celestine’s fortune,” replied the law^^er. 
“And if you regret having given 3’our daughter, as a 
dowry coming from 3’ou, a sum which is less than half 
what her mother left her, we are read3" to return it.” 

“Are you aware, monsieur,” said Crevel, assuming 
his attitude, “that in covering Madame Marneffe with 
m3’ name the world can onl3’ question her conduct in 
the character of Madame Crevel ? ” 

“That ma3" be a gentlemanly sentiment,” said the 
law3’er; “it is generous as to matters of the heart 
and errors of passion ; but I know of no name, no law, 
no title, which can cover up a theft of three hundred 
thousand francs, basel3^ stolen from my father. I tell 
you plainly, my dear father-in-law, that your future wife 
is unworthy of you ; she is deceiving you, and she is 
madly in love with my brother-in-law Steinbock, — she 
has paid his debts.” 

“ I paid them.” 

“Very good,” said the lawyer; “I am glad on his 
account, and he will repay you ; but I can tell you that 
he is loved by her, — greatly loved and often loved.” 


Cousin Bette, 


483 


“Loved!” exclaimed Crevel, whose face proclaimed 
the violent commotion taking place within him. “It is 
base, it is cruel, it is petty and vulgar to calumniate 
a woman ! When such things are said, monsieur, they 
should be proved.” 

“ I will give you proofs.” 

“I shall expect them.” 

“The day after to-morrow, my dear Monsieur Cre- 
vel, I will tell you the day, hour, and moment when 
and where I can show you the horrible depravity of 
your future wife.” 

“ Very good,” said Crevel, who had recovered his 
coolness; “I shall be delighted to have you do so. 
Adieu, Celestine ; au revoir. Adieu, Lisbeth.” 

“ Follow him, Lisbeth,” said Celestine in Bette’s ear. 

“Well, what are you off in such a hurry for? ” cried 
Lisbeth, overtaking Crevel. 

“ Ah ! ” said Crevel, “ my son-in-law is getting too 
uppish. The Palais and the Chamber, legal trickery 
and political trickery have made a swaggering fellow 
of him. Ha ! ha ! he knows well that I ’m to 
be married on Wednesday, and to-day, Sundaj^, my 
gentleman declares he will tell me three days hence at 
what date he can prove my wife is unworthy of me. 
That *s pretty clever of him. I am now on my way to 
sign the contract ; come, too, Lisbeth, come ! They ’ll 
never know. I meant to arrange it so as to give C41es- 
tine forty thousand francs a year, but Hulot has behaved 
in a way to alienate my heart forever.” 

“ Give me ten minutes ; wait for me in your carriage 
at the door. I ’ll find some pretext to get away.” 

“ Very good.” 


484 


Cousin Bette. 


“ My dear friends,” said Lisbeth, re-entering the salon, 
“ I am going with Crevel ; the contract is to be signed 
to-night, and I shall be able to tell you its terms. It will 
probably be m3’ last visit to that woman. Your father 
is furious,” she added ; “he means to disinherit 3"ou.” 

“ His vanity won’t allow that,” said the law3’er. “ He 
wanted to own the estate of Presles, and he will keep it 
now he has got it. I know him. Even if he should 
have children, Celestine must have half the estate, 
and the law does not allow him to give away the 
whole of his personal fortune. However, these ques- 
tions are nothing to me ; I am thinking only of our 
honor. Go, cousin ! ” he said, pressing Lisbeth’s hand, 
“ go, and bring back word about the settlements.” 

Twenty minutes later Lisbeth and Crevel reached the 
mansion in the rue Barbet, where Madame Marneffe was 
awaiting with moderate impatience the result of the visit 
which she had ordered Crevel to make. In the long run 
Valerie had fallen a prey to that excessive love which 
once, at least, grasps the heart of ever}’ woman. Wen- 
ceslas, the abortive artist, became in Madame Mar- 
neffe’s hands, so perfect a lover that he was to her what 
she had been to Baron Hulot. She was holding his 
slippers in one hand, while the other was clasped in his, 
and her head rested on his shoulder. The conversation 
between them after Crevel’s departure on his errand 
was like those literary works of the present da}^ whose 
titlepages bear the words, “Reproduction forbidden.” 
The poetic charm of their intimac}" brought to the 
artist’s mind and so to his lips a regret which he 
expressed with some bitterness. 

“ Ah, what a misfortune that I am married ! ” he said. 


Cousin Bette, 485 

“ If I had waited as Lisbeth advised I could have mar- 
ried you by this time.’’ 

“ A man must be a Pole before he can wish to make 
a wife of an adoring mistress,” cried Valerie. “ Ex- 
change love for duty, pleasure for monotony ! ” 

“ But you are so capricious,” replied Steinbock. “ Did 
I not overhear you talking with Lisbeth about Baron 
Montez, that Brazilian ? ” 

“ Will 3^ou help me to get rid of him? ” said Valerie. 

“ It would be the only way to keep you from seeing 
him,” replied the ex-sculptor. 

“I will tell you, my treasure, — for I tell you all, 
don’t I? — that I did once think of letting him be my 
husband. Oh ! the promises I have made him ! ” (“ long 
before I knew j^ou,” she added, replying to a gesture of 
Steinbock’s). “Well, those promises which he holds 
over me like a weapon oblige me to marry almost se- 
cretly ; if he were to hear that I mean to marr^" Crevel 
he is capable of — killing me.” 

“ Oh, as for that,” said Steinbock, with a contemptu- 
ous gesture signifying that any such danger was absurd 
for a woman who was beloved bjr a Pole. 

In the matter of courage the Poles are never unduly 
boastful, for the race is truly brave. 

That fool of a Crevel wants to have a gay wedding, 
and is full of his ideas of cheap splendor ; it puts me in 
a position I don’t know how to get out of.” 

Valerie could not admit to the man she adored that 
ever since Baron Hulot had been dismissed, Henri Mon- 
tez had inherited the privilege of coming to her house 
at all hours of the night and that, in spite of her clever- 
ness, she had not yet been able to quarrel with the Bra- 


486 


Cousin Bette* 


zilian, who in all her attempts invariably took the 
blame upon himself. She knew too well the man’s half- 
savage nature (which resembled Lisbeth’s in some as- 
pects) not to tremble as she thought of this South 
American Othello. As Crevel’s carriage rolled into 
the courtyard, Steinbock retreated from Valerie, whose 
waist he was holding, and picked up a newspaper in 
which he was quite absorbed when Crevel and Lisbeth 
entered the room. Valerie was embroidering with great 
care a pair of slippers for her future husband. 

“ How they calumniate her! ” whispered Lisbeth to 
Crevel in the doorway, showing him the little scene. 
“ See her hair ; is it the least rumpled? To hear Victo- 
rin one would suppose they were a pair of turtle-doves 
in a nest.” 

“ My dear Lisbeth,” said Crevel, in position, ‘‘ to 
make a Lucretia out of an Aspasia one has only to in- 
spire her with a great passion.” 

“Yes, and I always told you,” returned Lisbeth, 
“ that women love such libertines as you.” 

“ She would be very ungrateful if she did not,” said 
Crevel. “ See what loads of money I have spent here ; 
no one knows how much but Grindot and I.” 

So saying he pointed back to the staircase. In the 
arrangement of the house, which Crevel regarded as his 
own, Grindot had tried to out-do Cleretti, the architect 
then in vogue, to whom the Due d’Herouville had in- 
trusted the decoration of Josepha’s apartments. But 
Crevel, incapable of comprehending an3^ question of art, 
intended, like others of the middle class, to spend a 
fixed sum agreed upon in advance. Restrained by this 
estimate, Grindot was unable to realize his architectu- 


Cousin Bette, 


487 


ral di’eam. The difference between Josepha’s mansion 
and Madame Marneffe’s was exactly that which lies 
between uniqueness and vulgarity. All that was most 
admired in Josepha’s house could be seen nowhere else ; 
whereas the splendors Crevel had bestowed on Madame 
Marneffe’s might be bought anywhere. These two dis- 
tinct forms of luxury are separated by the river of mil- 
lions. A unique mirror costs six thousand francs ; the 
mirror invented by manufacturers who turn out scores 
of them can be had for five hundred. A chandelier by 
Boule, if known to be authentic, brings at public auction 
three thousand francs ; the very same thing, if cast, can 
be made for a thousand or twelve hundred ; the one is to 
archaeology what a picture by Raphael is to art, the other 
is a mere copy. The Crevel-Marneffe mansion was there- 
fore a magnificent specimen of ignorant luxury, while 
Josepha’s was a fine model of an artistic dwelling. 

“ War is proclaimed,” said Crevel, going up to his 
future wife. 

Madame Marneffe rang the bell. 

“Go and fetch Monsieur Berthier,” she said to the 
footman, “and don’t come back without him. If 3'ou 
had succeeded, my dear old man,” she said to Crevel, 
twining her arms about him, “you would have delayed 
our happiness ; we should have been obliged to have a 
great wedding; but when a whole family opposes the 
marriage, decency requires that it shall take place quietly, 
— especiall}’ when the bride is a widow.” 

“ On the contrar}', I am determined to display a lux- 
ury a la Louis XIV.,” said Crevel, who for some time 
past had been thinking the eighteenth century rather 
petty. “ I have ordered new carriages; there’s a car- 


488 


Cousin Bette, 


riage for me, and a carriage for my wife, two prett}' 
coupes, a caleche, and a state-coach with a box-seat 
which shakes like Madame Hulot.” 

“ ‘ I am determined ’ ! — is that a way to speak ? So 
you don’t want to be my lamb an}’ more? No, no, my 
precious, 3’ou’ll do as I say. We will sign the marriage 
contract quietly by ourselves to-night; then on Wed- 
nesday we will be married legally in due form, and go 
on foot and plainly dressed to the church and have only 
a low mass. The witnesses can be Stidmann, Steinbock, 
Vignon, and Massol, all clever fellows who can happen 
into the mayor’s office as if by accident ; afterwards 
the}’ must sacrifice themselves so far as to hear mass in 
church. Your colleague can marry us, for once in a 
way, at nine o’clock in the morning; mass is said at 
ten ; and we can be home here to breakfast by half-past 
eleven. I have promised a number of guests that the 
feast shall last all day. We shall have Bixiou, your old 
comrade de Birotterie, du Tillet, Lousteau, Vernisset, 
Leon de Lora, the flower of French wit, who won’t know 
that we have just been married ; we ’ll mystify them all, 
and get them a trifie drunk. Lisbeth is coming and 
Bixiou is to make her some proposals — to take the 
starch out of her.” 

For two hours Madame Marneffe ran on, chatterinor 
nonsense which made Crevel come to the following wise 
conclusion: “How is it possible,” he said to himself, 
“ that such a gay and happy creature should be de- 
praved ? Giddy ? well, yes, but wicked — never ! ” 

“What did your children say about me?” asked 
Valerie, when s^e was holding Crevel close to her on the 
sofa, — “ all sorts of horrors? ” 


Cousin Bette, 


489 


“ They declare,” he replied, “ that you love Wences- 
las criminally — you ! virtue^ itself ! ” 

“ Love him? I should think I did love him, m}^ little 
Wenceslas,” she cried, calling the artist to her and 
taking his head between her hands and kissing his brow. 
“ Poor boy, without friends, without fortune, deserted 
by a giraffe with carroty* hair ! Wenceslas is my poet ; 
I love him before all the world as I would m 3 ’ own child. 
Those virtuous women, the}’ imagine evil everywhere 
and in ever 3 "thing. Can’t the}’ keep quiet without 
making mischief for a man ? As for me, I ’m a spoilt 
child, and nothing is ever refused to me. Sugarplums 
have ceased to give me any emotion. Poor women ! I 
pity them. Which of them said that of me ? ” 

“ It was Victorin.” 

“ Hey ! and why did not you shut his mouth, the 
pettifogging parrot ! with those two hundred thousand 
francs of his mamma* s f 

“ Adeline had left the room,” said Lisbeth. 

“ Let them take care, Lisbeth,” said Madame Mar- 
neffe, frowning. “Either they must receive me in a 
proper spirit, and visit me as their step-mother, all of 
them! or — I’ll land them lower than the baron, and 
you may tell them so from me. I ’ll turn wicked in the 
end. On my word of honor, I believe that Evil is the 
scythe which brings in the harvest of good.” 

At three o’clock the notary Berthier, successor to 
Cardot, read the marriage contract, — after a previous 
short conference with Crevel; for certain articles de- 
pended on the manner in which Monsieur and Madame 
Hulot, junior, received their father’s invitation. Crevel 
gave to his future wife the following fortune : 1. Forty 


490 


Oousin Bette, 


thousand francs a year, secured in a designated manner. 

2. The house in the rue Barbet and all that it contained. 

3. Three millions in money. Over and above these 
settlements, he gave his wife all the donations that the 
law allowed ; released her from the necessity of making 
inventories ; and provided that in case either party died 
without children, the whole estate, real and personal, 
was to go to the survivor. This contract reduced 
Crevel’s own fortune to two million of francs. If he 
had children by his new wife, Celestine’s inheritance 
was cut down to five hundred thousand francs, — about 
the ninth part of his actual property^ 

Lisbeth returned to dinner in the rue Louis-le-Grand 
with despair written on her face. She explained and 
discussed the marriage contract, and found Celestine as 
indifferent as Victorin to the money aspects of the affair. 

“You have irritated your father, m}^ dears. Madame 
Marneffe has sworn that you shall receive her as his 
wife, and visit her in her own house.” 

“ Never ! ” said Hulot. 

“Never! ” said Celestine. 

“Never!” cried Hortense. 

Lisbeth was seized with a desire to trample the pride 
of these Hulots underfoot. 

“ Madame Marneffe seems to have some weapon 
against us,” she replied; “I don’t know what it is, 
but I mean to find out, — she alluded vaguely to some 
story about two hundred thousand francs which con- 
cerns Adeline — ” 

Madame Hulot fell back on the sofa and went into 
convulsions. 

“ Go, go to her, my children ! ” she cried. “ Receive 


Cousin Bette. 


491 


that woman ! Monsieur Crevel is an infamous wretch ! 
he deserves death — Yes, obey that woman — ah ! he 
is a monster — she knows aUJ* 

After a few more broken phrases mingled with tears, 
Madame Hulot found strength to go upstairs supported 
by Hortense and Celestine. 

“ What does all this mean? ” cried Lisbeth, left alone 
with Victorin. 

The lawyer stood rooted to the ground in such amaze- 
ment that he did not even hear the words, 

“ What is the matter, Victorin? ” 

“ I am horror-struck,” said the law3"er, whose face 
became threatening. “ Evil to those who dare attack 
m}^ mother; I shall have no scruples henceforth. I 
would crush that woman as I would a viper, if the 
means came in my way — She, she to attack my 
mother’s honor! ” 

“ She said — but don’t repeat this, dear Victorin — 
that she would land the whole family lower than 3"Our 
father. She reproached Crevel openly for not shutting 
3’our mouth with this secret which seems so terrifying 
to Adeline.” 

Hortense now sent down a request for a doctor, as 
Madame Hulot was growing worse. He ordered opium, 
and Adeline soon fell into a deep sleep ; but the rest of 
the family remained in a state bordering on terror. The 
next day the lawyer went earl3^ to the Palais de J ustice, 
and as he passed the prefecture of police he requested 
Vautrin, the head of the detective force, to send him 
Madame de Saint-Esteve. 

“We are forbidden to interfere in 3’our affair, mon- 
sieur ; but Madame de Saint-Esteve has a business, — she 


492 


Cousin Bette. 


can call on you respecting that,” said tlie celebrated 
officer. 

When he reached home the poor young man heard 
that his mother’s reason was in danger. Doctor Bian- 
chon, Doctor Larabit and Professor Angard, meeting in 
consultation, had just decided to employ heroic reme- 
dies to drive the blood from her head. As Victorin 
was listening to Bianchon, who was explaining why he 
had hopes that the crisis could be controlled though his 
associates despaired of it, the footman annouced Ma- 
dame de Saint-Esteve. Victorin left Bianchon in the 
middle of a sentence and ran down to his own apart- 
ments with the headlong rapidity of an insane man. 

“ Can there be any hereditary tendencies to mad- 
ness in the family?” thought Bianchon, turning to his 
colleagues. 

The doctors went away, leaving one of their pupils to 
watch the case. 

“ A lifetime of virtue ! ” were the only words that 
Madame Hulot said after the blow had fallen. Lisbeth 
never left Adeline’s bedside ; she sat up all night, and 
won the admiration of the two young women by her 
devotion. 

“Well! my dear Madame de Saint-Esteve, how is 
our matter coming on?” said Victorin, ushering the hor- 
rible old woman into his study, and carefully closing 
the doors. 

“Well! my dear friend,” she replied, looking at him 
with an eye that was coldly ironical, “have you made 
your little reflections?” 

“Have you done anj'thing?” 

“ Will you give fifty thousand francs?” 


Cousin Bette, 


493 


“Yes,” said Hulot, “for the thing must be done. 
This woman, by a single word, has put my mother’s 
life and reason in danger — and so, go on.” 

“ We have gone on,” replied the old woman. 

“Well?” said Victorin, convulsively. 

“ You won’t refuse to pay costs?” 

“ On the contrary.” 

“ The costs already amount to twenty- three thou- 
sand francs.” 

Hulot looked at the old woman with a bewildered air. 

“Ha! it can’t be possible that you’re a simpleton, — 
3"Ou, one of the lights at the Palais,” said the old woman. 
“ For that sum of mone}' we have bought the conscience 
of a waiting-woman and a picture by Raphael. I don’t 
call that dear.” 

Hulot continued to look at her stupidly with his eyes 
wide open. 

“ Well,” resumed Madame de Saint-Esteve, “ in plain 
words, we have bought Mademoiselle Reine Tousard, 
Madame Marneife’s maid, who possesses all her se- 
crets — ” 

“ I understand.” 

“ If you mean to be niggardly, say so at once.” 

“I shall pay as I agreed,” he answered. “Go on. 
My mother said such women deserved the worst pun- 
ishment.” 

“ The3" don’t break people on the wheel nowadays.” 

“You are certain of success?” 

“Trust me for that,” answered the woman. “Your 
vengeance is already stirring.” She looked at the time- 
piece ; it was six o’clock. “ Your vengeance,” she con- 
tinued, “is dressing itself at this moment; the dinner 


494 


Cousin Bette, 


at the Kocher de Cancale is cooking, the horses of the 
carriages are champing their bits, my irons are getting 
hot. Ha ! I know your Madame Marneffe by heart. All 
is ready. The little pills are in the trap ; I ’ll tell 3 011 
to-morrow whether the mouse has poisoned herself. I 
think she will. Adieu, my son.” 

“Adieu, madame.” 

“ Do you understand English?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Have you ever seen Macbeth played in that lan- 
guage?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, my son, ‘ all hail ! thou shalt be king here- 
after/ ” said the horrible old witch foreseen by Shaks- 
peare, and seemingly familiar with him. She left Hulot, 
still bewildered, in the doorway of his apartment. 
“ Don’t forget that the case comes on to-morrow,” she 
said, courteous!}" ; for she saw two persons near the 
door, and wished them to think her a Comtesse 
Pimbeche. 

“ What cool audacity ! ” thought Hulot, as he bowed 
to his pretended client. 


Cousin Bette, 


495 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

A DINNER-PARTY OF LORETTES. 

The Baron Montez de Mont^janos was a lion, but an 
unexplained lion. The Paris of fashion, of the turf, 
and of the lorettes admired the ineffable waistcoats of 
this foreign lord, his irreproachably varnished boots, his 
thorough-bred horses, his carriage driven by negroes 
who were docile and well trained. The baron’s fortune 
was known ; he had a credit of seven hundred thousand 
francs with his banker, dii Tillet; yet he was never 
seen except alone. If he went to the first represen- 
tation of some play he never took but one stall. He 
frequented no salon ; he had never offered his arm to 
a lorette ; his name was not connected with that of any 
pretty woman in society. His sole pastime was pla}'- 
ing whist at the Jockey Club. Gossips were reduced 
to calumniating his morals, or, what seemed infinitely 
more comical, his person ; they called him Combabus. 
Bixiou, Leon de Lora, Lousteau, Florine, Mademoiselle 
Heloise Brisetout, and Nathan, supping one evening 
with the illustrious Carabine and several other lions and 
lionesses, invented this extremely burlesque explana- 
tion : Massol in his capacity as councillor of state, 
Claude Vignon as a former Greek professor, had related 
to the ignorant lorettes the famous anecdote handed 
down in Rollin’s Ancient History concerning Comba- 


496 


Cousin BtUe, 


bus, that voluntary Abelard, who was charged with the 
duty of looking after the wife of a king of Assyria, Per- 
sia, Bactriana, Mesopotamia, and other regions named 
in the particular geography of old Professor du Bocage, 
the successor of D’Anville, who, by the by, created the 
East. This nickname, which kept the lorettes laugh- 
ing for some time, became the subject of many jokes 
too vivacious to be repeated here, lest the Academy 
should refuse us the Montyon prize. 

Now, on the morning of the verj^ day when Madame 
de Saint-Esteve prophesied success to Victorin Hulot, 
Carabine, or rather Mademoiselle Seraphine Sinet, — 
who was to the banker- du Tillet what Josepha Mirah 
w^as to the Due d’Herouville, — said to du Tillet : — 

“ If you were a good fellow, you w^ould give me a 
dinner at the Rocher de Cancale and invite Combabus. 
We want to find out whether or no he has a mistress. 
I have bet he has, and I want to win.” 

“He is still at the Hotel de Princes,” answered du 
Tillet. “ I ’ll go and find him. We will have some fun. 
Get all our fellows, — Bixiou, Lora, in short, the whole 
crowd.” 

At half-past seven that evening, in the handsomest 
room of the famous establishment where all Europe has 
dined, a table was laid out with the magnificent silver 
seiwice reserved for dinners where vanity paid the bill 
in bank-notes. Floods of light rippled and danced on 
its chiselled edges. Servants, who might have been 
mistaken for diplomatists were it not for their age, 
were serious and calm, like men who know they are 
overpaid. 

Five persons had arrived and were awaiting nine 


Comin Bette. 


497 


more. First came Bixiou, the salt of all intellectual 
cookery, still going on in 1843 with a battery of witti- 
cisms ever new, — a phenomenon as rare in Paris as 
virtue itself. Then Leon de Lora, the greatest land- 
scape and sea painter living, who maintained himself 
above all rivals by never falling below his early prom- 
ise. The lorettes were unable to do without these two 
princes of wit and humor. Not a supper, not a din- 
ner, not a pleasure party of any kind, could go on 
without them. Seraphine Sinet, called Carabine, came, 
in her capacity of mistress to the amphitryon, among 
the first arrivals, displaying under the dazzling flood of 
light a pair of unrivalled shoulders, a throat turned as 
if by a sculptor, without a crease, a piquant face, and 
a dress of brocaded satin, blue upon blue, trimmed with 
English lace in sufficient quantity to have kept a whole 
village from starvation for a month. Prett}' Jenny Ca- 
dine, who did not play that night at her theatre, and 
whose portrait is too well known to need reproduction 
here, came in a fabulous toilette. A supper-party is to 
these dames a Longchamps of dresses, at which they 
all endeavor to show the worth of their millionnaires 
by saying to their rivals through their clothes, “ See the 
price he has paid for me.” 

A third woman, apparently at the outset of her 
career, looked with a sort of shame at the display of 
the two others. She was simply dressed, in white cash- 
mere trimmed with blue, and crowned with flowers by 
a hairdresser of the Merlan type, whose clumsy hands 
had contrived, without knowing it, to give the graces 
of innocence to the beautiful blond hair. Not at 
ease in her dress, she showed, to use the consecrated 
32 


498 


Cousin Bette. 


phrase, “ the timidity of a first appearance.” She had 
brought from Valogne to the markets of Paris an inex- 
pressible freshness, a candor and beauty equal to an}' 
that Normandy has ever supplied to the various the- 
atres of the capital. The lines of the unblemished face 
showed the ideal purity of angels ; its milky whiteness 
reflected back the light as though it were a mirror, and 
her color was finely touched on as with a brush. 

She was called Cydalise ; and was, as we shall see, 
a pawn in the game which Madame de Saint-Esteve, 
otherwise named Madame Nourrisson, was about to 
play against Madame Marneffe. 

“ You have n’t the arms of your name, my dear,” said 
Jenny Cadine, to whom Carabine presented the little 
beauty, who was sixteen years of age. In truth Cyda- 
lise presented for public admiration a pair of handsome 
arms, of fine texture but reddened by superabundant 
health. 

“What is she worth?” asked Jenny Cadine in a 
whisper of Carabine. 

“ A fortune.” 

“ What do 3'ou want to do with her ? ” 

“ Make Combabus marry her.” 

“ What do you get for that performance? ” 

“ Guess.” 

“ A silver service? ” 

“ I have three.” 

“ Diamonds? ” 

“ I sell some of mine.” 

“ A green monkey?” 

“ No ! a picture by Raphael.” 

“What maggot have you got in 3'our head?” 


Cousin Bette. 


499 


“Josepha crows over me with her pictures,” an- 
swered Carabine. “I want some as fine as hers.” 

Du Tillet arrived with the hero of the feast, the Bra- 
zilian ; the Due d’Herouville followed with Josepha. 
The singer wore a simple velvet robe, but round her 
neck la}^ a necklace of pearls, worth a hundred and 
twenty thousand francs, and hardly distinguishable from 
a skin which was like a white camellia. She had put a red 
bud (a mouche) among the braids of her hair with be- 
wildering effect, and round her arms, twined one above 
the other, were eleven pearl bracelets on each arm. 
“ Lend me those mittens,” said Jenny Cadine, as she 
shook hands with her. Josepha took off the bracelets 
and offered them on a plate to her friend. 

“ What st3’le ! ” exclaimed Carabine. “You ought to 
be a duchess ! — You have plundered the sea, Monsieur 
le due,” she added, turning to the little man. 

Jenny Cadine accepted a single bracelet, fastened the 
twenty-one others to Josepha’s arras and kissed her. 
Lousteau, the literaiy sponger, la Palferine and Ma- 
laga, Massol and Vauvinet and Theodore Gaillard, 
proprietor of one of the most eminent political news- 
papers, completed the number of the guests. The Due 
d’Herouville, polite, as a great lord should be, to all 
the world, nevertheless gave the Comte de la Palferine 
that significant little bow which, without implying esteem 
or intimac}”, says to everybody else, ‘‘We are equals — 
of the same race and famil^r.” This little bow, the 
shibboleth of aristocracy, was invented to be the despair 
of men of intellect among the upper bourgeoisie. 

Carabine placed Combabus at her left and the Due 
d’Herouville at her right. Cydalise flanked the Brazilian, 


500 


Cousin Bette, 


and Bixiou was on the other side of Cydalise. Malaga 
sat next the duke. 

At seven o’clock they attacked the oysters ; at eight, 
between two courses, Roman punch was served. Everj^- 
body knows the bill of fare of such banquets. By nine 
o’clock they were all chattering as people chatter after 
forty-two bottles of wine have been drunk among four- 
teen persons. The dessert, a miserable month of April 
dessert, was served. The heady atmosphere had intoxi- 
cated no one but Cydalise, who was singing a Christmas 
carol. With that exception, none of them had lost their 
heads, for men and women both were the elite of Paris 
as to suppers. Wit sparkled, eyes, though they shone, 
were full of intelligence, but the lips were verging on 
satire, anecdote, and indiscretion. The conversation, 
which had so far turned a vicious circle round current 
events, horses, disasters at the Bourse, the various 
merits of the people of their own stamp, comparing them 
with one another, together with well-known scandalous 
tales, now threatened to become personal, and to break 
up into groups of two. 

It was at this moment that, in consequence of certain 
glances distributed b}- Carabine among Leon de Lora, 
Bixiou, la Palferine and du Tillet, the talk was turned 
on love. 

“ Doctors never talk medicine, real nobles never talk 
ancestors, men of genius never tell of their own works,” 
said Jos<^pha, “ why should we talk shop? I got ex- 
cused from the Opera to come here to-night, and I don’t 
want to bring my business with me. Let ’s change the 
subject, my dears.” 

“We are talking of real love,” said Malaga, “ love 


Cousin Bette. 


501 


which drives men to perdition — drives them to ruin 
their fathers and mothers and sell their wives and their 
children — drives them into Clichy.” 

“ Don’t know it ! ” said Josepha. These words, aided 
by the eyes and expression of face of such women, is an 
epic poem upon their lips. 

“ Do I not love you, Josepha?” said the duke in a 
low voice. 

“You may, perhaps, really love me,” whispered the 
singer, smiling; “ but I do not love 3’ou with the love 
they are talking of, that love which turns the universe 
all black if the one we love is not with us. You are 
agreeable and useful, but you are not indispensable to 
me ; if you desert me to-morrow, I shall find three dukes 
for one.” 

“ Does real love exist in Paris? ” said Leon de Lora. 
“ No one has time to make his fortune, how then can he 
give himself up to real love, which takes possession of 
a man as water saturates sugar. One must needs be 
enormously rich to love in that way, for love makes a 
man a cipher for everything else — witness our dear 
Brazilian baron here present. A real lover is like a 
eunuch, there are no longer any women on earth to him. 
He is a m^^ster^’, he is like the first Christian, solitary 
in his desert. Look at our worthj' Brazilian.” All 
e^^es turned to Henri Montez, who was annoyed to find 
himself the object of such notice. He has been feeding 
there for the last hour without knowing, any more than 
an ox, that his neighbor is the — I won’t say the prettiest, 
but the freshest woman in Paris.” 

“ All is fresh here, even the fish which gives the 
Rocher de Cancale its renown,” said Carabine. 


502 


Cousin Bette, 


Baron Montez looked at the landscape painter in a 
friendl}^ manner, saying, “Very good, I drink your 
health ; ” then he bowed, raised his glass, filled with port, 
and drank the wine ceremoniously. 

“ Then you do love some one? ” said Carabine, inter- 
preting his toast to have that meaning. 

The Brazilian filled his glass, bowed to Carabine and 
repeated the toast. 

“ Here’s to Madame’s health,” said the lorette, in so 
comic a tone that Lora, du Tillet, and Bixiou burst out 
laughing. 

The Brazilian continued as immovable as a bronze 
image. His cool reserve irritated Carabine. She knew 
perfectly well that he loved Madame MarneflTe ; but she 
did not expect to encounter such stolid faith, the obsti- 
nate silence of a perfectly secure man. We sometimes 
judge of a woman by the attitude of her lover, and of a 
lover by the conduct of his mistress. Proud of loving 
Valerie and sure of being loved by her, the baron’s smile 
bore, to the eyes of these professors emeriti, a tinge of 
irony, and he was certainly at that moment superb to 
look upon ; wine had not heightened his color ; his e3’es, 
shining with the special brilliancy of golden hazel, kept 
back the secrets of his soul. Carabine said to herself : 
“ What a woman ! how does she manage to keep your 
heart under lock and key like that ? ” 

“ He is a roc,” said Bixiou, who saw the chance for a 
pun and did not suspect the importance which Carabine 
attached to the demolition of Montez’s reserve. 

While these remarks, apparently so frivolous, were 
made on Carabine’s right the discussion of love was 
continued on her left by the Due d’Herouville, Lousteau, 


Cousin Bette, 


508 


Jos^pha, Jenny Cadine, and Massol. They came at 
last to inquire whether its rare phenomena were pro- 
duced by passion, by obstinacy, or by genuine feeling. 
Josepha, much bored by these theories, again tried to 
change the conversation. 

“ You talk of something 3^ou know nothing of,” she 
said. “ Is there a man among 3’ou who has so loved a 
woman — an unworthy woman — as to squander his for- 
tune and that of his children, sell his future, disgrace 
his past, risk the galley's by robbing the State, kill his 
uncle and his brother, and allow that woman to so 
blind him that he never sees the gulf into which she 
is aiming, as a last amusement, to drive him? Du 
Tillet carries a ledger in place of a heart ; Leon de 
Lora his wit in the same place ; Bixiou would laugh 
at himself if he loved anj’body better than Bixiou ; 
Massol’s heart is a ministerial portfolio ; Lousteau’s 
nothing but a viscus (he who could let Madame de 
Baudraye leave him !) ; Monsieur le due is too wealthy 
to prove his love by ruining himself, and Vauvinet 
does n’t count — the broker of the human species has 
no heart. No, none of you have ever loved, nor I 
either, nor Jenny, nor Carabine. But I did once, and 
once onl^*, see the phenomenon I have just described. 
I mean,” she said, turning to Jennj^ Cadine, “ our poor 
Baron Hulot, for whom I am now advertising as I would 
for a lost dog — I am determined to find him.” 

“ Ha ! ” thought Carabine, looking suspiciously at 
Josepha, “ has Madame Nourrisson two of Raphael’s 
pictures ? Is Josepha piaffing my game ? ” 

“ Poor man ! ” said Vauvinet, “ he was really a fine 
fellow. What style he had ! what an air and manner ! 


604 


Cousin Bette. 


He was like Francois I. ; a perfect volcano ! and what 
ability, what genius he displayed in getting hold of 
money ! I have no doubt he still manages to get it 
wherever he is ; perhaps he digs it out of the walls of 
Paris somewhere in the faubourgs and about the bar- 
rieres where he is probabl}’ hidden.” 

“ And all,” said Bixiou, for that little Madame 
Marneffe ! What a vicious thing she is, too ! ” 

“ She is going to marrj^ my friend Crevel,” said du 
Tillet. 

And she is madly in love with my friend Stein- 
bock,” said Leon de Lora. 

The three speeches were like pistol-shots striking 
Montez full in the breast. He grew livid and suffered 
so intensely that he struggled to his feet. 

“ You are scoundrels ! ” he said. ‘‘ You ought not to 
mention the name of an honest woman in presence of 
these lost women of yours, and make her a target for 
your vile jests.” 

Montez was interrupted by a chorus of plaudits and 
bravos, for which Bixiou, Lora, Vauvinet, du Tillet, 
and Massol gave the signal. 

“ Long live the Emperor ! ” said Bixiou. 

“ Crown him ! ” cried Vauvinet. 

“One groan for Medor, and hurrah for Brazil!” 
shouted Lousteau. 

“ Ah, my armored baron ! so you love our Valerie? ” 
said Leon de Lora, “ and you are not 3’et disgusted?” 

“What he said wasn’t parliamentary,” remarked 
Massol, “ but it was magnificent.” 

“My dear invaluable client,’’ said du Tillet, “you 
have been recommended to me. I am your banker; 


Cousin Bette. 505 

and this blind innocence of 3’ours will not redound to 
m3’ credit.” 

Tell me, 3’ou who are a sober-minded man — ” said 
the Brazilian to du Tillet. 

“ Thanks, for all of us,” said Bixiou, bowing. 

“ — tell me something positive,” continued Montez, 
pa3ing no regard to Bixiou. 

“ Well,” said du Tillet, “ I have the honor of being 
invited to Monsieur Crevel’s marriage with Madame 
Marneffe.” 

“Ah, Combabus, now defend her,” cried Josepha. 
Rising solemnly, she walked with a tragic air to Mon- 
tez and gave him a friendlj’ tap on the head, gazing at 
him for a moment with an air of comic admiration ; 
then she nodded her head and said: “ Htilot is m3’ 
first example of love through thick and thin ; here ’s 
the second, — but this one ought not to count; he 
comes from the tropics.” 

As Josepha gently tapped his head, Montez fell back 
in his chair and turned his eyes on du Tillet. “ If I am 
the butt of 3’our Parisian jests,” he said, “ if 3’ou have 
wilfully torn m3’ secret from me” — he wrapped the 
whole table and the guests in one flaming glance full of 
the fires of Brazil — “ I pra3’ you,” he added, with an 
almost childlike and suppliant air, “ tell me that it is so 
— but do not calumniate the woman whom I love.” 

Ah ! ” whispered Carabine in his ear, “ what if 3’ou 
are shamefulh" betrayed, deceived, and tricked b3’ Va- 
lerie ; what if I can prove it to you, an hour hence, in 
m3^ own house ? Tell me, what would you do then ? ” 

“I cannot tell 3"ou here in presence of all these 
lagos.” 


506 


Cousin Bette, 


Well then, come home with me, and I’ll give j^ou 
proofs.” 

Montez seemed annihilated. “Proofs!” he stam- 
mered, “ think what you are saying.” 

“Yes, proofs; more than j^ou want,” answered Ca- 
rabine. “But if mere suspicion flies to your head in 
this way I ’m afraid the truth will drive you mad.” 

“ Is n’t he obstinately blind, that fellow ? Whj*, he is 
worse than the late King of Holland,” said Leon de 
Lora. “Come, you fellows, Bixiou, Massol, and the 
rest, are not you all invited to Madame Marneffe’s 
wedding breakfast the day after to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied du Tibet. “ I have the honor to 
repeat. Monsieur le baron, that if 3’ou have an}" idea 
of marrying Madame Marnefle you are undoubtedly 
rejected by a black-ball under the name of Crevel. My 
good friend, Crevel has eighty thousand francs a year ; 
probably you have not as much, or, I feel quite sure, 
you would have been preferred.” 

Montez listened with an air half-dreamy, half-smiling, 
which seemed alarming to the company about him. At 
this moment the head-waiter entered the room and 
whispered to Carabine that one of her relations was in 
the salon and wished to speak to her. The lorette 
rose, left the room, and found Madame Nourrisson, alias 
Madame de Saint-Esteve, waiting for her, enveloped in 
a cloud of black lace. 

“Well, am I to go to your house, my dear? Has 
he taken the bait?” 

“Yes,” replied Carabine, “ the pistol is so well loaded 
that I am afraid it will burst.” 


Cousin Bette, 


507 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE CHEAP PARISIAN PARADISE OP 1840. 

An hour later Montez, Cydalise, and Carabine, return- 
ing from the Rocher de Cancale, entered Carabine’s little 
salon in the rue Saint-Georges, There the lorette saw 
Madame Xourrisson on a sofa beside the fire. 

“ Dear me ! here ’s my worthy aunt,” she said. 

“Yes, my child, I came to get m}^ little stipend. 
You ’ve a good heart, but I feared you might forget 
that I have bills to pay to-morrow. Who is that with 
3’ou ? — the gentleman looks as though matters were not 
going well with him.” 

The hideous Madame Nourrisson, completely dis- 
guised, looked like a respectable old woman as she rose 
to kiss Carabine, one of the hundred or more lorettes 
whom she had started in the horrible career of vice. 

“He is an Othello who makes no mistakes ; I have 
the honor of introducing to you Monsieur le baron Mon- 
tez de Montejanos.” 

“ Eh ! I have heard a good deal about him ; you are 
called Combabus, the}^ tell me, because you love only one 
woman. In Paris that ’s the same as if j^ou loved none 
at all ! Hey ! can it be the one we were talking of — 
Madame Marneffe, who is to be Crevel’s wife ? If it is, 
bless 3'our stars, my dear monsieur, for having lost her, 
instead of taking it to heart. She is a shameless hussy, 
that little woman — I know her wa3’s.” 


608 


Cousin Bette, 


“ Ah,” said Carabine, into whose hands Madame 
Nourrisson had covertly slipped a paper as she kissed 
her, “ you don’t understand Brazilians. They are mad- 
men who stick knives in their own hearts. The more 
jealous they are the more they want to be. Monsieur 
talks of murdering everybody, but he won’t kill a thing, 
because he ’s in love. I have brought him here to give 
him proofs of Madame Mameffe’s infidelity which I got 
out of Steinbock.” 

Montez seemed drunk ; he listened as if what he 
heard did not concern him. Carabine leisurely took off 
her velvet mantle and then read the following note 
aloud : — 

“ My treasure, he dines to-night with Popinot and will come 
to the Opera for me about eleven o’clock. I leave home at 
half-past five and shall expect to find you in our paradise, 
where you must order a dinner from the Maison d’Or. 
Dress so that you can take me to the Opera. We shall have 
four hours to ourselves. Return this note, — not that your 
Valerie distrusts you, — I would give you my life, my for- 
tune, and my honor, — but I fear accidents.” 

“ There, baron ; that’s the fac-simile of a little note 
sent by Madame Marneffe to Comte Steinbock this 
morning. Read the address. The original is burned.” 

Montez turned and returned the paper; he recog- 
nized the handwriting; then a wise thought struck 
him, which proves how much he was shaken. 

“ You have some interest in tearing my heart in two,” 
he said, looking at Carabine; “otherwise why should 
you take the trouble and pay the costs of having this 
letter lithographed ? ” 

“Simpleton!” cried Carabine, at a sign from Ma- 


Cousin Bette, 


509 


dame Nourrisson, “ don’t you see that poor Cydalise, 
a child of sixteen, has loved you for the last three 
months, till she can neither eat nor drink nor sleep 
because 5"Ou take no notice of her?” (Cydalise put 
her handkerchief to her eyes and appeared to weep.) 
“ She is furious, in spite of her missish airs, at see- 
ing the man she loves made a fool of by that scandal- 
ous woman, ” continued Carabine ; “ she is ready to 
kill her — ” 

“ Ha ! ” said the Brazilian, “ that’s my affair.” 

“Kill her! you, my joung friend?” exclaimed Ma- 
dame Nourrisson ; “that’s not allowed in these days.” 

“ Ah,” said Montez, “ I don’t belong to this country ; 
its laws are nothing to me ; I live in a land where I laugh 
at them, and if you give me proof — ” 

‘ ‘ Bless me ! the note — is n’t that enough ? ” 

“No,” said the Brazilian, “I don’t believe in writ- 
ing, I must see — ” 

“See!” exclaimed Carabine, quickly understanding 
another gesture of her pretended aunt, “3’ou shall see 
all, my dear tiger, on one condition.” 

“What is it?” 

“ Look at Cydalise.” 

At a sign from Madame Nourrisson, Cydalise gazed 
tenderly at the Brazilian. 

“ Listen to me,” cried Montez, perceiving this femi- 
nine masterpiece for the first time, “ if you show me 
Valerie — ” 

“ — and the Comte Steinbock, together? yes,” in- 
terposed Madame Nourrisson. 

For the last ten minutes the old woman had watched 
the Brazilian narrowly, — she saw in him an instrument 


610 


Cousin Bette. 


tuned to the pitch of murder ; she saw moreover that 
he was so blinded by excitement that he would take no 
notice of those who led him on. Sure of these two 
things, she now interposed. 

“ Gydalise is my niece, she said, “ and I have a 
right to inquire what all this means. As for your de- 
mand to see Madame Marneflfe, that ’s an affair of ten 
minutes. One of m}^ friends lets to Comte Steinbock 
the room where your Valerie is this moment drinking 
her coffee — queer coffee ! but she calls it coffee. But 
let us understand each other. What of Brazil ? I like 
Brazil ; it is a warm country. What will be my niece’s 
position there ? ” 

“ Old ostrich ! ” said Montez, struck by the feathers 
which adorned Madame Nourrisson’s bonnet. ‘‘ Show 
me Valerie and the artist together — ” 

“As 3’ou would like to be with her,” said Carabine 
— “that’s understood.” 

“ — and I will marry this girl, if j^ou want me to, 
and take her to Brazil — ” 

Cydalise took the Brazilian’s hand, which he extricated 
as soon as possible, continuing his own thoughts : — 

“I came back intending to return to Brazil with 
Madame Marneffe,” he said; “3^011 don’t know wh3^ it 
took me three years to get back? ” 

“ No, my wild Indian,” said Carabine. 

“ She told me she wished to live alone with me in a 
desert — ” 

“ Not so wild after all,” cried Carabine, bursting with 
laughter ; “ he belongs to the tribe of civilized savages.” 

“ She said it so often,” continued the baron, regard- 
less of the lorette’s laughter, “that I prepared a de- 


Cousin Bette. 


511 


lightful residence on my property in Brazil ; I came 
back to Paris, and the night I again beheld her — ” 

“ ‘ Beheld’ ! the word is decent. I’ll remember it,” 
said Carabine. 

“ — she told me to wait the death of that wretched 
Marneffe, and she would marrj" me. I consented ; I 
even forgave her for accepting Baron Hulot’s attentions. 
I don’t know whether the devil was in her petticoats, 
but from that moment that woman satisfied all m3" 
wishes, all my caprices, all my exactions, — in short, 
she never gave me reason to suspect her ; no, not for an 
instant.” 

“Ah, that’s too bad!” said Carabine, looking at 
Madame Nourrisson, who nodded her head in assent. 

“ M3" faith in that woman,” continued Montez, whose 
tears were now fiowing, “equalled m3" love. I almost 
came to blows with those men just now — ” 

“ Yes, I saw it,” said Carabine. 

“If I am deceived, if she is to be married, if she is 
at this moment in Steinbock’s arms, that woman de- 
serves a thousand deaths, and I would kill her as I 
would crush a fly.” 

“And the police, m3" little man?” said Madame 
Nourrisson, with a smile that made the flesh creep. 

“Yes, and the galle3"S and all the rest of it?” said 
Carabine. 

“You are only boasting, my dear fellow,” said Ma- 
dame Nourrisson, who wanted the Brazilian to reveal 
his plan of vengeance. 

“I will kill her,” repeated Montez calmty. “Ha! 
3"OU call me a wild Indian, a savage. Do you think that 
I shall imitate the folly of your compatriots, who buy 


512 


Cousin Bette. * 


poison and pistols in the shops ? I thought over my re- 
venge as you were bringing me here. I am prepared in 
case you produce proofs against Valerie. One of my 
negro servants has brought with him an animal poison, 
the surest of all poisons, which creates a disease far 
more certain and horrible in its effects than any vegeta- 
ble poison. I will find a way to convey it to that woman ; 
and then, when death is in the veins of Crevel and his 
wife, I shall be far beyond the Azores with 3^our niece, 
and I will marry her. We barbarians, as you call us, 
have our waj^s and means ! — I am going mad,” ex- 
claimed the Brazilian, in a hollow voice, suddenly fall- 
ing backward on the sofa. “ I shall die of this. But 
1 loill see ; I loill know ! It is impossible ! The note 
was lithographed ; how do I know it was not forged ? — 
Baron Hulot love Valerie?” he continued, remembering 
Josepha’s revelations, “ wh}", the proof that he did not 
love her is that she still lives. Would I suffer her to 
live on if she were not wholly mine?” 

Montez was terrifying to see, and more terrifying to 
hear. He foamed, he bellowed, he contorted himself; 
everything he touched he broke ; the woodwork about 
him crashed like glass. 

“ He ’ll break everything,” said Carabine to Madame 
Nourrisson. “ Come, come,” she said, tapping the Bra- 
zilian, “ a mad Roland is very well in a poem, but in a 
private house it is prosaic and costly.” 

“My son,” said Madame Nourrisson, rising and plant- 
ing herself before the Brazilian, “ I am of your faith. 
When we love in a certain way we reckon with death ; 
whoever betrays love tears life out by the roots, and 
pays with death! You have my respect, my admira- 


Cousin Bette, 


513 


tion, m3’ consent. But 3’ou love that woman ; you will 
back down ! — ” 

“ I ? — if 3’Ou prove her infamous, I will — ” 

“Come, come, 3"ou talk too much — let’s see what 
comes of it,” said Madame Nourrisson, becoming herself 
again. “ A man who really intends to revenge himself 
does n’t tell how he means to do it. To see 3’our Va- 
lerie in her paradise, 3’ou must take Cydalise with you, 
and enter by mistake, as it were, — no scandal, no 
disturbance, remember. If 3’Ou reall}’ mean vengeance 
3’OU must pretend to hang back, seem shocked at your 
intrusion, and let her abuse you. Are 3’ou up to that?” 
added Madame Nourrisson, observing the Brazilian’s 
surprise at the subtle scheme. 

“ Come, ostrich,” he exclaimed, “ let us go ; I under- 
stand you ; I am read3’.” 

“ Adieu,” said Madame Nourrisson to Carabine. 

She signed to Cydalise to go before with Montez, and 
sta3’ed a moment alone with Carabine. 

“Now, m3^ dear,” she said, “I’m 01113’ afraid that 
he ’ll strangle her. That would put me in a bad box — 
we want such things done quieth’. You ’ve earned 3'our 
Raphael ; but the3’ sa3" it is n’t a Raphael, only a 
Mignard. Never mind, ^ it is handsomer; they tell 
me the Raphaels have all turned black, but this one is 
as pretty and bright as a Girodet.” 

“ I only want to get the better of Josepha,” cried 
Carabine ; “ and I don’t care whether it is a Mignard or 
a Raphael. That little thief wore pearls to-night — such 
pearls ! I ’d damn m3’ soul for them.” 

Cydalise, Montez, and Madame Nourrisson took a 
hackney-coach from the stand near Carabine’s front 

33 


614 


Cousin Bette. 


door. Madame Nourrisson whispered to the coachman 
the address of a house in the block under the Opera- 
house ; which they would soon have reached, — for the 
time required to go from the rue Saint-Georges is only 
about seven or eight minutes, — but Madame Nourrisson 
ordered the man to drive through the rue Lepelletier 
and to go slowly past the carriages that were drawn up 
there waiting for the opera to be over. 

“ Brazilian ! ” said the old woman, “ see if you recog- 
nize your angel’s carriage.” 

The baron pointed to an equipage which the hackney- 
coach was then passing. 

“ She told her servants to be here at ten o’clock ; but 
she went herself in a street cab to the house where she 
now is with Comte Steinbock. She dined there, and 
she will come to the Opera in about half an hour. That 
woman manages well ! ” added Madame Nourrisson. 
“Now you see how it is she has contrived to escape 
detection so long.” 

The Brazilian made no answer. Turned into a tiger, 
he had recovered the imperturbable coolness which the 
Frenchmen had admired at dinner. He was, in fact, 
as calm and composed as a bankrupt on the day after 
his assignment. 

Before the door of the fatal house stood a street-cab 
with a pair of horses, of the kind called compagnie 
generale” from the name of the enterprise. 

“ Stay here,” said Madame Nourrisson to Montez, 
“you can’t enter this house as you would a tavern. 
You will be summoned in a few moments.” 

The paradise which Madame Marneffe and Wences- 
las were now occupying was not in the least like Crevel’s 


Cousin Bette. 


515 


little nest ; wliich, the bye, he had just sold to Max- 
ime de Trailles, fondly believing all use for it was over. 
Valerie’s present paradise, the paradise of man}^ other 
persons, consisted of one room on the fourth story, 
opening on the staircase of a house situated in the 
block of the Italian Opera-house. On each stoiy was a 
room opening directlj- on the landing of the stairs, which 
had formerl}^ served as kitchen to each apartment. But 
the house had now become a sort of inn let to clandes- 
tine lovers at exorbitant prices ; the chief proprietor, the 
real Madame Nourrjsson, of the rue Neuve-Saint-Marc, 
having justly estimated that her kitchens would return 
a better profit if used in this wa3^ All these rooms, 
inclosed by thick partition-walls and lighted from the 
street, were completely isolated from the rest of the 
house, and very thick double doors shut them off from 
the landing. Important secrets might be talked of 
without the least risk of their being overheard. For 
greater securit}^, the windows were provided with out- 
side blinds and inside shutters. These rooms could 
be hired for three hundred francs a month. The 
whole house, big with mysteries and Parisian seventh 
heavens, was let to Madame Nourrissou for twenty-four 
thousand francs a year ; on it she cleared, one 3'ear with 
another, twenty thousand francs profit over and above 
the rent. 

The special paradise let to Comte Steinbock was hung 
in chintz. A soft, thick carpet protected the feet from 
the chilly hardness of a red-tiled fioor. The furniture con- 
sisted of two pretty chairs and a bed in an alcove, partl}^ 
hidden just now by a table covered with the remains of 
a choice dinner, where two long-necked bottles, and a 


516 


Cousin Bette, 


bottle of Champagne standing empty in ice marked out 
the fields of Bacchus which Venus cultivated. Beside 
the fireplace stood a comfortable easy* chair, sent no 
doubt by Valerie, and against the wall was a pretty 
bureau in rosewood with a mirror draped a la Pompa- 
dour. A lamp, hanging from the ceiling, gave some 
light, which was increased by the wax-candles on the 
table and others standing on the mantle-shelf. 

This sketch will serve to show, urhi et orbi^ the petty 
and vulgar conditions of clandestine love as practised 
in the Paris of 1840. What a distance has the world 
travelled from the adulterous love sj^mbolized by the 
net of Vulcan three thousand years ago! 

As Cj’dalise and the baron were going up the four 
flights of stairs, Valerie, standing before the fireplace, 
where a few sticks were burning, was teaching Wen- 
ceslas to lace her corset. 

“ Upon my word I after two years’ practice, you 
don’t know how to lace a woman better than that ! 
Ah I you ’re too much of a Pole still ! Come, it is 
almost ten o’clock, my Wenceslas.” 

Just then a maid-servant of the house, using the 
blade of a knife, adroitly slipped the bolt of the double 
door which made Adam and Eve secure in their para- 
dise. She opened the door abruptl}^, — for people who 
hire rooms in such houses have little time to spare, — 
and disclosed one of those genre pictures in Gavarni’s 
style so often exhibited in the Salon. 

“ This way, madame,” said the maid. 

Cydalise entered, followed by Baron Montez. 

“Ah! there’s some one here!” said the frightened 
Cydalise. “ Excuse me, madame.” 


Cousin Bette. 


517 


“It is Valerie ! ’’ cried Montez, slamming the door 
violenfcl}". 

Madame Marneffe, overcome with an emotion too 
strong to be mastered in a moment, fell on a chair 
at the corner of the fireplace. Tears came into her 
e3"es, but dried instantly. She looked at Montez, then 
at Cydalise, and burst into a forced laugh. The anger 
of an offended woman stood her in place of her de- 
ficient clothes ; she came straight to the Brazilian, and 
looked at him so fiercely that her eyes glittered like 
weapons. 

“ So,” she said, pointing to Cydalise, “ this is your 
fidelity ! — you, who have made me promises enough to 
convert an atheist in love ! 3’ou, for whom T have done 
so much — crimes even ! You are right, monsieur ; I 
am nothing in comparison with a girl of that age and 
beauty ! I know what you would say,” she went on, 
pointing to Wenceslas, whose disordered appearance 
was a proof too evident to be denied. “This is my 
affair. If I could love you, after this infamous be- 
trayal, — for 3^ou have spied upon me, you have bought 
every step of that stairway, and the mistress of the 
house, and the servant, even Heine, perhaps, — oh ! 
what noble conduct ! — if I had an atom of affection 
left for a man so base I would make him bite the dust ; 
but I leave j’ou, monsieur, to your doubts, which will 
turn into remorse. Wenceslas, my dress.” 

She took the garment, put it on, looked herself all 
over in the glass, and tranquilly finished dressing, with- 
out even glancing at the Brazilian, absoluteljr as though 
she were alone. 

“Wenceslas, are you ready? go first,” she said. 


518 


Cousin Bette. 


With the corner of her eye she had seen the ex- 
pression of Montez’s face in the glass. In its pallor she 
thought she saw the indication of that weakness which 
delivers strong men over into the power of a woman’s 
fascination. She took his hand, coming near enough 
to let him breathe those terrible and beloved perfumes 
with which lovers intoxicate themselves ; then, aware 
of his emotion, she looked at him reproachful!}", and 
said : — 

“I permit you to go to Monsieur Crevel and tell 
him of your discovery. He will never believe 3'ou. 
I do right to marry him ; I shall marry him the day 
after to-morrow, and I shall make him happy. Adieu ; 
try to forget me.” 

“Ah, Valerie!” cried Henri Montez, clasping her 
in his arms; “that is impossible! Come with me to 
Brazil ! ” 

Valerie looked at him ; she had recovered her slave. 

“If you still loved me, Henri,” she said, “ I could 
be your wife in two j’ears — but no, there ’s something 
sl}^ and dangerous in your face at this moment.” 

‘ ‘ I swear to you that they made me drunk and flung 
that woman upon my hands, — false friends that they 
were ! Believe me, it is all accidental ! ” 

“Then I can still forgive 3"Ou?” she said, smiling. 

“ Will you marry me now?” asked the baron, a prey 
to the keenest anxiety. 

“ Eighty thousand francs a year! ” she cried, with 
an enthusiasm that was almost comical; “and Crevel 
loves me so he must soon die ! ” 

“Ha! I begin to understand you,” said the Bra- 
zilian. 


Cousin Bette. 


519 


She left him triumphantly. 

“ I have no longer any scruples,” thought the baron, 
who remained for a moment rooted to the spot. “ Can 
such things be? That woman means to use her love 
to get rid of that old fool, just as she reckoned on the 
destruction of Marneffe. Yes, I will be the instrument 
of the wrath of God.” 

Two days later the guests who at du Tibet’s banquet 
had torn Madame Marneffe to pieces with their tongues 
were all breakfasting at her table an hour after she 
had cast her skin and changed her name for the more 
illustrious one of the mayor of Paris. Such infidelities 
of the tongue are among the commonest peccadilloes of 
Parisian life. Valerie had seen with much satisfaction 
that Montez was present in the church, and his appear- 
ance at the breakfast astonished no one. All those men 
of wit and intellect were accustomed to the degradations 
of passion and the compromises of intrigue. The gloom 
displayed by Steinbock, who was beginning to despise 
the woman he had so long thought an angel, seemed to 
the persons present to be in excellent taste, intended 
to show that all was over between Valerie and himself. 
Lisbeth arrived to kiss her dear Madame Crevel, but 
excused herself from remaining to the breakfast on the 
ground of Madame Hulot’s alarming condition. 

“ Don’t be uneasy,” she said to Valerie as she left 
her, “ they will invite you to their house, and you will 
receive them in yours. Those four little words, two hun- 
dred thousand francs, simply annihilated Adeline when 
she heard them. Oh ! you hold the whip hand with that 
story, — but you must tell me what it is.” 

A month after her marriage Valerie had reached her 


620 


Cousin Bette. 


tenth quarrel with Steinbock, who insisted on explana- 
tions about Henri Montez and reminded her of expres- 
sions which she used during the scene in paradise. Not 
only did he wither her with his contempt, but he watched 
her so closely that she no longer had a moment’s free- 
dom, caught as she was now between the jealousy of W en- 
ceslas and the eagerness of Crevel. Lisbeth’s excellent 
advice being no longer at hand, Valerie lost her head 
sufficient!}' to reproach Wenceslas sharply for all the 
money he had cost her. Steinbock’s pride was up in 
arms and he absented himself from the Crevel mansion. 
This was Valerie’s object ; she wished to get rid of him 
for a short time and recover her liberty. Crevel ex- 
pected to pay a visit to Comte Popinot at his countr}*- 
place for the purpose of negotiating Madame Crevel’s 
presentation at court, and Valerie was anxiously await- 
ing that moment in order to come to an explanation 
with Montez. The morning of the day when all this 
was to happen, Reine, who judged her crime by the 
largeness of the sum received for it, tried to warn her 
mistress, in whom she was naturall}" more interested 
than in strangers ; but she had been threatened with 
accusations of insanity and imprisonment in the Sal- 
petriere in case she played false, and was therefore 
timid. 

“ Madame is so happy now,” she began, “ why should 
she trouble herself about that Brazilian? I distrust 
him.” 

“ That’s true, Reine,” answered her mistress, “ and 
I am going to send him off.” 

“ Ah, Madame, I am so glad ; he frightens me, that 
blackamoor ! I think he ’s capable of a crime.” 


Cousin Bette. 521 

“ Silly girl ! It is for him you ought to fear when he 
is with me.” 

Just then Lisbeth came in. 

“Ah, my dearest, how long it is since I have seen 
you!” cried Valerie. “I’m very unhappy. Crevel 
plagues me to death and I ’ve lost Wenceslas — we 've 
quarrelled.” 

“ I know that,” said Lisbeth, “ and I have come 
about it to-day. Victorin met him at five o’clock the 
other evening just as he was entering a twent3"-five sous 
restaurant in the rue de Valois ; he caught him fasting 
and plied him with sentiment and finally" brought him to 
the rue Louis-le-Grand. When Hortense saw him, pale 
and ill and shabbj’, she held out her hand to him. That ’s 
how 3"ou ’ve betrayed me.” 

“Monsieur le baron Montez, madame,” said the 
footman. 

“You must go now, Lisbeth; I’ll explain it all 
to-morrow.” 

But, as we shall see, Valerie was soon to be unable to 
explain anything. 


522 


Cousin Bette, 


CHAPTER XXXYIT. 

FULFILMENT OF VALERIe’s JESTIJ^O PROPHECIES. 

Toward the end of May Baron Hulot’s pension was 
wholly freed by the payments which Victorin made from 
time to time to Baron Nucingen. Everj'body knows 
that the quarterly distribution of pensions is not paid 
unless a certificate of the life of the annuitant is pre- 
sented ; and as nothing was known of Baron Hulot, the 
quarterly sums which had been assigned over to Vauvi- 
net still remained unpaid in the Treasury. Vauvinet 
had signed his release of all claims and it now became 
necessary to find the nominee so as to draw out the ac- 
cumulated funds. Madame Hulot, thanks to Dr. Bian- 
chon, had recovered her health. The kind Josepha 
contributed to this result by a letter, the st3de and or- 
thography of which betrayed the collaboration of her 
little duke. The following was all the information the 
singer was able to convey' to the baroness after an ac- 
tive search of forty days : — 

Madame la baronne, — Monsieur Hulot was living two 
months ago in the rue des Bernardins, with Blodie Chardin, 
the lace-mender, who took him away from Mademoiselle Bi- 
jou. He has now disappeared from there, leaving everything 
that he possessed behind him, and without saying where he 
was going. I am not discouraged, however; and I have set 
a man upon his traces who thinks he saw him not long ago 
on the boulevard Bourdon. 


Cousin Bette, 


523 


The poor Jewess will keep her promise to the Christian. 
Will the good spirit pray for the evil one? surely that is 
often done in heaven. I am with deep respect and forever, 
Your humble servant, 

JosEPHA Mirah. 

Victorin Hulot, hearing nothing more of the dreadful 
Madame Nourrisson, finding that his father-in-law was 
really married, and having brought his brother-in-law 
back under the family roof, turned once more to his 
legal and political duties, and was carried along by the 
current of Parisian life, in which hours often count for as 
much as days. Having a certain report to make in the 
Chamber of Deputies, he sat up one night toward the 
close of the session to prepare it. He was sitting in his 
study about nine o’clock in the evening, waiting for the 
footman to bring him a shaded lamp, and thinking of 
his father. Feeling some reproach at leaving the search 
to Josepha, he was resolving to see Monsieur Chapuzot 
the next day about the matter, when he saw in the dim 
twilight, at his open wdndow, the fine head of an old 
man, with a bald crown fringed with white hair, 

“ Monsieur, will 3’ou tell your servants to admit a 
poor hermit who has just come from the deserts to beg 
money to rebuild his convent?” 

This apparition, speaking in human tones, suddenly 
reminded Victorin of Madame Nourrisson’s prophecy, 
and he shuddered. 

“ Let that old man come in,” he said to the footman. 

‘ ‘ He ’ll poison the air of Monsieur’s study,” said the 
man. “That brown robe of his hasn’t been changed 
since he left S3Tia, and he has no shirt.” 

“ Let him come^n,” repeated the lawyer. 


524 


Cousin Bette. 


The old man entered. Victorin looked with a suspi- 
cious eye at the so-called pilgrim-hermit, and beheld a 
superb specimen of those Neapolitan monks whose 
robes are sister garments to the rags of the lazzarone, 
their sandals leathern thongs, and they themselves 
mere human tatters. The man was so perfect a speci- 
men of his kind that Victorin, distrustful as he still 
was, checked his first impulse of belief in Madame 
Nourrisson’s warning.” 

“ What is it you want? ” 

“ Whatever you choose to give me.” 

Victorin took a five-franc piece from a pile of silver 
on the table and gave it to the old man. 

“It is a small sum on account for fifty thousand 
francs,” said the mendicant. 

The words put an end to Victorin’s doubt. 

“ Has heaven fulfilled its promises? ” said the lawyer, 
frowning. 

“ That question is an insult, my son,” replied the 
hermit. “ If you do not wish to pay until after the 
funeral, you have the right to refuse. I will return in 
a week.” 

“ The funeral ! ” exclaimed Hulot, rising. 

“Action has been taken,” said the old man, bowing 
himself out ; “ the dead die quick in Paris.” 

When Hulot, who had lowered his head for a mo- 
ment, was about to reply, the active old man had dis- 
appeared. 

“ I don’t understand one word of it,” said Victorin 
to himself. “But if he does come back in eight days I 
will ask him to produce my father, — if he is not found 
in the mean time. Where in the world does Madame 


Cousin Bette. 625 

Noun-isson (yes, that is her real name) find such 
actors ? ” 

The next day Dr. Bianchon allowed Madame Hulot 
to go into the garden ; he was asked at this visit to ex- 
amine Lisbeth, who had been confined to her room for 
two or three weeks with a slight bronchial trouble. 
The wise doctor, unwilling to express his opinion on 
Bette’s state until he had seen more decisive symptoms, 
accompanied the baroness into the garden to watch the 
effect of the open air on her nervous quivering after be- 
ing shut away from it for over two months. The hope 
of curing this infirmity incited his genius. 

Your life is a busy one,” said the baroness, “ and 
full of sadness. I have known what it is to spend days 
in watching physical suffering and infirmity.” 

“Madame,” said the doctor, “I know the work 
which your charity prompts you to undertake ; but in 
the long run you will do like the rest of us. It is the 
law of social life. The confessor, the magistrate, the 
lawyer would find their occupation gone if the spirit of 
the common weal did not counteract the heart of man. 
Could existence continue without the accomplishment of 
that phenomenon? The soldier}’, in times of war, see 
sufferings more terrible than those which we see, but 
all soldiers who have been under fire are tender-hearted. 
We physicians, have the joys of cure ; you, the happi- 
ness of saving a family from hunger, degradation, mis- 
ery, by enabling it to work and thus restoring its social 
status ; but what shall console the magistrate, the com- 
missary of police, the lawyer, who spends his days in 
laying bare the base intrigues of self-interest, — that 
social monster which knows no regret but that of not 


526 


Cousin Bette, 


succeeding, and which remorse or repentance never 
reaches ? One half of society spends its time in watch- 
ing the other half. I have a friend, a law3’er, now re- 
tired from business, who tells me that for the last fifteen 
3’ears notaries and legal advisers are as distrustful of 
their clients as of their clients’ adversaries. Your son, 
madame, is a lawyer ; has he never been compromised 
by the man he was retained to defend ? ” 

Oh, often ! ” said Victorin, smiling. 

“ What is the root of such evil ? ” asked Madame 
Hulot. 

“ The lack of true religion,” said the doctor ; ‘ the en- 
croachment of money-getting, which is, in other words, 
egotism materialized. Money was formerly not the 
whole of life ; other forms of superiority" were admitted 
— nobility, genius, great services done to the State — 
but to-day law itself makes money the one standard ; it 
has made it the essential basis of political capacity- ! 
Certain magistrates are not eligible! Jean-Jacques 
Rousseau would not be eligible. The perpetual divid- 
ing up of patrimonies obliges every man to look out for 
his own interests from the age of twenty-one. And so, 
between the necessity^ of making a fortune and the 
demoralization of trickery and intrigue the barriers are 
broken down ; for the religious sentiment is lacking in 
France, in spite of the praiseworthy^ efforts of those 
who are trying to bring about a Catholic restoration. 
That is the opinion of those who, like me, view society 
in its inward parts.” 

‘‘You have little pleasure in life,” said Hortense. 

“ The true physician,” said Bianchon, “ has a passion 
for science. He is borne up by that emotion as much 


Cousin Bette, 


52 T 


as he is 'by the conviction of his social usefulness. 
Why, at this very moment I am all alive with scientific 
joy, and many persons would take me for a heartless 
fellow. To-morrow I shall announce a great discovery 
before the Academy of Medicine, — a lost disease, of 
which I have two cases. It is incurable ; science is 
powerless against it, at least in temperate climates ; 
it can be cured, they sa}", in the Indies. It existed in 
Europe in the middle ages. What an inspiring strug- 
gle between our noble profession and such a malady ! 
For the last ten days I have thought incessantly of m3' 
patients ; there are two — a husband and wife. By the 
bj'e, madame,” he added, turning to Celestine, “can 
the3' be relations of 3'ours ? Are 3'ou not the daughter 
of Monsieur Crevel ? ” 

“ My father ! ” exclaimed Celestine. Does 3'our 
patient live on the me Barbet-de-Jouy?” 

“Yes, he does,” answered Bianchon. 

“And the disease is fatal?” said Victorin, horror- 
stricken. 

“ I must go to my father,” cried Celestine, rising. 

“ I positivel}' forbid it, madame,” said Bianchon, 
quietly, “ the disease is contagious.” 

“You can do so if 3'ou like, monsieur,” said the 
3'oung woman, firmly; “ but do 3’ou think that the 
duty of a daughter is less imperative than that of a 
physician ? ” 

“ Madame, a ph3'sician knows how to protect him- 
self; and your unreflecting self-devotion warns me that 
you have not my prudence.” 

Celestine rose and went up to her own rooms, where 
she dressed to go out. 


I 


528 


Cousin Bette. 


“ Monsieur,” said Victorin to Bianchon, “ have 
you anj^ hope of saving Monsieur and Madame 
Crevel ? ” 

“ I hope it without expecting it,” replied Bianchon. 
“ The case is inexplicable to me. The disease is pecu- 
liar to negroes and to those American nations whose 
cuticle differs from that of the white races. Now I 
cannot trace any connection between Monsieur and 
Madame Crevel and the blacks, or the copper-colored or 
half-breed races. The disease, though a very interesting 
one for us, is horrifying for all who come near it. The 
poor woman, they say, was pretty ; to-day she is some- 
thing too frightful to behold — if indeed she is a thing 
at all! Her teeth and her hair have fallen out; she 
looks like a leper ; her hands are horrible, swollen and 
covered with greenish pustules, the nails fall out and 
remain in the holes which she scratches in her flesh, — 
indeed all the extremities are being destroyed b}^ the 
ichor which is eating into them. Poor woman ! she has 
a horror of herself.” 

“But what caused it?” said Hulot. 

“ Ah ! ” said Bianchon, “ the cause is apparently the 
decomposition of the blood, which is going on with 
frightful rapidity. My hope is to attack the disease in 
the blood itself, which I have had. analyzed, and I am 
now going home to learn the result from my friend 
Professor Duval, the famous chemist ; I shall probably 
try one of those heroic measures which we doctors 
sometimes play against death.” 

“ The finger of God is in it ! ” said the baroness, in a 
voice of awful emotion. “ Though that woman has 
caused us evils which have made me call down the 


CouBin Bette, 


529 


divine justice on her head, yet I pray to God j’ou may 
succeed in saving her/’ 

Victorin Hulot was scarcely master of himself; he 
looked at his mother, his sister and the doctor alter- 
nately, trembling lest they should read his secret 
thoughts. He felt like an assassin. Hortense, for her 
part, thought God was just. Celestine returned dressed 
to go out, and requested her husband to accompany her. 

“ If 3^ou insist on going, madame, and 3^ou too, mon- 
sieui*, remember to keep one foot awa3" from the beds ; 
that is the only precaution necessary. Neither you nor 
3"Our wife must touch the patients. You must not leave 
3'our wife a moment. Monsieur Hulot, lest she trans- 
gress this rule.” 

Adeline and Hortense, left alone, went up to sit with 
Lisbeth. Madame Steinbock’s hatred against Valerie was 
so great that she could not restrain an explosion of it. 

‘‘Cousin Bette, my mother and t are avenged,” she 
cried. “ That venomous creature is stung at last ; she 
is a heap of decomposition.” 

“Hortense,” said Madame Hulot, “3"ou are not a 
Christian woman. You ought to pra3" God to inspire 
that unhapp3" woman with repentance.” 

“What are 3’ou talking about?” cried Bette, rising 
from her chair. “ Are you speaking of Valerie ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Hortense, “the doctors give her 
up ; she is d3dng of a horrible disease, the ver3" descrip- 
tion of which would make you shudder.” 

Bette’s teeth chattered ; a cold sweat came out upon 
her, a terrible convulsion of her whole being proved the 
depth of her feeling for Valerie. 

“ I must go to her,” she said. 

34 


530 


Cousin Bette. 


“ But the doctor forbade your going out.” 

‘ ^ No matter ; I shall go. Poor Crevel ! what a state 
he must be in, for he loved his wife.” 

“He is dying too,” said Madame Steinbock. “ Ah, 
the devil has laid hands on all our enemies ! ” 

“ My daughter, they are in God’s hands.” 

Lisbeth dressed herself, putting on the famous 3"ellow 
cashmere, a black velvet bonnet, and laced boots ; then, 
regardless of her cousin’s remonstrances, she departed 
as though driven by some despotic power. Reaching 
the rue Barbet not long after Monsieur and Madame 
Hulot, she, found seven doctors, called, together bj^ Bian- 
chon to view the extraordinar}" and unique case. Bian- 
chon himself came in shortly after. These gentlemen, 
standing about the salon, were discussing the disease 
eagerly ; first one and then another would go into 
Valerie’s bedroom or into Crevel’s to observe some 
point and then return with an argument based on that 
hasty examination. 

Three opinions were held b}' these princes of science. 
One physician alone denied the existence of the malady 
of the middle-ages, and declared the case was one of 
simple poisoning from private motives. Three others 
considered it a decomposition of the lymph and other 
fluids of the system. The third opinion, held by Bian- 
chon and the rest of the doctors, maintained that the 
disease was caused by a vitiation of the blood, corrupted 
by some unknown deadly element. Bianchon brought 
with him the results of Professor Duval’s analysis of 
the blood. The proposed method of cure, though des- 
perate and altogether empirical, depended on the present 
discussion of the question. 


Cousin Bette. 


531 


Lisbeth stood petrified three feet from the bed where 
Valerie lay dying when she saw the vicar of St. Thomas 
Aquinas beside the pillow of her friend, and a sister 
of charity taking care of her. Religion found a soul to 
save in that mass of corruption, where, of the five hu- 
man senses, sight alone seemed all that was left. A 
sister of charity, who was found willing to nurse the 
dying woman, stood at a little distance. The Catholic 
Church, that divine bod}’, ever guided by the inspiration 
* of sacrifice in all things, was there to help the wicked, 
and now loathsome creature, with its double work for 
mind and body, its infinite compassion, and its treasures 
of mercy inexhaustible. 

The servants, horror-stricken, and believing that their 
masters were justly punished, thought only of them- 
selves, and refused to enter the sick-rooms. The stench 
was so great that, in spite of the open window’s and 
the powerful perfumes strewn about, no one could re- 
main long near Valerie. Religion alone watched over 
her. Could a woman with a mind so superior as hers 
refrain from asking herself what interest kept those 
representatives of the Church beside her? No ; and she 
therefore gave heed to the words of the priest. Re- 
pentance entered and filled that corrupted soul, even 
as corruption ravaged and destroyed the beauty of 
its bod}^ The delicate Valerie had offered less resist- 
ance to the fell disease than Crevel, and she was about 
to die before him, having, moreover, been the first 
attacked. 

“ If I had not been ill, my Valerie, I should have 
been here to nurse you,” said Lisbeth at last, after 
exchanging a look with the sunken eyes of her friend. 


532 


Cousin Bette, 


“ It is fifteen or twenty days since I left my room, but 
hearing to-day from the doctor of your illness, I have 
come at once.” 

“ Poor Lisbeth ! you love me still. I know it,” said 
Valerie. “ Listen, dearest ; I have but a day or two to 
think — I cannot say to live. You see me; I have no 
body left. I am a mass of filth — I have what I deserve. 
Oh, would that I could now undo the evil I have done, 
that I might find mercy — ” 

“Oh,” said Lisbeth, “if you talk like that, you are 
dead indeed.” 

“Do not hinder this woman from repentance,” said 
the priest ; “ leave her to Christian thoughts.” 

“Nothing left of her!” muttered Lisbeth, horror- 
stricken, — “not a feature; the mind gone too! Oh, 
it is frightful ! ” 

“ You do not know ” said Valerie, “ what it is to die, 
— to be forced to think of the day after death, of what 
there must be in the coflin : worms for the body, but 
what for the soul? Ah, Lisbeth, I am conscious there 
is another life, and the terror of it keeps me from feel- 
ing the pains of my rotting flesh ! — I, who mimicked 
a good woman, and told Crevel, laughing, that God’s 
vengeance had many ways of punishment — ah, I was 
a prophet ! Do not trifle with sacred things, Lisbeth ! 
If you love me, repent, repent ! ” 

“I!” said Bette; “I have seen vengeance every- 
where in nature : the insects perish to satisfy their 
need of vengeance when they are attacked ! And these 
gentlemen,” she said, pointing to the priest, “tell us 
that God is revengeful, and that his vengeance lasts 
through all eternity — ” 


Cousin Bette, 


533 


The priest turned and looked gently at her. “You 
are an atheist, madame,” he said. 

“But see, Lisbeth, what I have come to,” said 
Valerie. 

“How did you get that gangrene?” asked Bette, 
doggedly maintaining her peasant scepticism. 

“ Henri sent me a note which left no doubt upon my 
fate. He has killed me. To die just as I meant to live 
decently — and to die an object of horror ! — Lisbetli, 
give up all thoughts of vengeance ; be good to that 
family ; I have left them, in my will, all that the law 
allows me to dispose of. Lisbeth, you are the only 
being who does not rush away from me in horror, and 
yet I pray you go, go — leave me ! I have so little 
time to give myself to God ! — ” 

“She’s delirious,” thought Lisbeth, as she left the 
room. 

The strongest known sentiment, the friendship of a 
woman for a woman, was not capable of the heroic con- 
stancy of the Church. Lisbeth, suffocated by miasmatic 
odors, left the chamber. She found the doctors still 
disputing ; but Bianchon’s opinion was gaining ground, 
until finally no opposition was made to his proposed 
heroic measures. 

“ At any rate, there will be a magnificent 'post-mortem^^ 
said one of the opponents ; “we shall have two subjects 
and be able to establish comparisons.” 

Lisbeth accompanied Bianchon as he returned to Va- 
lerie’s chamber and leaned over the bed, apparently not 
perceiving the effluvium that proceeded from her. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ we are going to try a power- 
ful remedy which may possibly save you.” 


534 


Cousin Bette. 


“ If you save me,” she said, “ shall I be as beautiful 
as before ? ” 

“ Perhaps,” said the cautious doctor. 

I know what your perhaps means ! ” said Valerie ; 
“ I shall be like those women who fall into the fire. 
No, leave me to the Church ! I can please none but 
God. Let me strive to make my peace with him, — it is 
my last seduction.” 

“Ah, now I recognize my Valerie!” cried Lisbeth, 
weeping. 

She felt herself obliged to go into Crevel’s bedroom, 
where she found Victorin and his wife sitting three feet 
from the bed of the plague-stricken man. 

“Lisbeth,” he cried when he saw her, “they are 
hiding my wife’s condition from me ; you have seen her, 
how is she? ” 

“She is better; she says she is saved,” answered 
Lisbeth, allowing herself the play on words to ease 
Crevel’s mind. 

“ Ah, good I ” said the mayor ; “ I have been terribly 
anxious. If I were to lose her what would become of 
me? My children, believe me, on my word, I adore 
that woman.” 

Crevel tried to assume his attitude, sitting up in bed. 

“ Oh, papa 1 ” said Gelestine, “ if ^^ou were only well 
again I would receive my step-mother ; I vow it.” 

“ Poor little Gelestine I ” said Crevel, ‘^come and kiss 
me.” 

Victorin caught his wife as she was about to spring 
forward. 

“You are not aware, monsieur,” he said, gently, 
“ that your disease is contagious.” 


Cousin Bette, 


535 


“ True,” said Crevel, “ and the doctors are congrat- 
ulating themselves on finding a sort of middle-age black 
death in it, which they have long been hunting up. 
Queer, isn’t it?” 

“ Papa,” said Celestine, “ be brave, and 3'ou may still 
conquer the disease.” 

“ Oh ! don’t be uneasy, my dear ; death thinks twice 
before it strikes a ma3’or of Paris,” he said, with comi- 
cal ease of manner. “ Besides, if my arrondissement 
is so unfortunate as to lose a man whom it has twice 
honored with its suffrages (hein ! that ’s a well-turned 
phrase, is n’t it? ), I shall know how to pack my trunk. 
I ’m an old traveller, in the habit of starting ofl!’ on jour- 
ne3"s. Ha ! my children, I ’m a free thinker, I alwa3"s 
was.” 

“ Papa, promise me you will let the Church minister 
at 3’our bedside.” 

“Never!” replied Crevel. “I have sucked the 
breasts of the Revolution ; my mind is not the equal of 
Baron d’Holbach’s but I have his strength of character. 
Heavens and earth ! I ’m» more than ever regency, 
mousquetaire, Abbe Dubois, and Richelieu ! M3' poor 

wife, who is out of her head, has just sent me a man in 
a cassock, — to me, the admirer of Beranger, the friend of 
Lisette, the child of Voltaire and Jean- Jacques ! Dr. 
Bianchon said, to test me and see if the fever were go- 
ing down, ‘Have you seen a priest?’ Well, how do 
3’ou think I answered ? I imitated the great Montes- 
quieu. Yes, I looked at the doctor — there, like that 
[putting himself at a three-quarter profile, as in his pict- 
ure, and stretching forth his hand authoritatively] — and 
then I said : — 


536 


Cousin Bette, 


‘ The helot came ; 

He showed his order, and he left with shame.* 

Monsieur le president de Montesquieu retained all his 
wit on his death-bed. I ’m fond of that passage — ha, 
‘ passage * — a pun ! the passage-Montesquieu.” 

Victorin Hulot gazed at his father-in-law, asking him- 
self sadly whether ignorance and vanity did not pos- 
sess as great a force as true grandeur of soul. The 
causes which pull the hidden wires of the soul seem to 
have no connection whatever with results. Can it be 
that the strength of will displayed by a great criminal 
is the same as that of which a Champcenetz was justly" 
proud on his way to the scaffold ? 

By the end of the week Madame Crevel was in her 
grave, after unheard-of sufferings, and Crevel followed 
his wife within two da3’s. According. to the terms of 
the marriage contract Crevel inherited his wife’s prop- 
erty, having survived her. 

The day after their funeral Victorin Hulot received a 
second visit from the old monk. The mendicant silentl}^ 
held out his hand, and silently Hulot placed within it 
eighty bank-bills of one thousand francs each, exactly 
the sum which was found in Crevel’s desk. Madame 
Hulot, junior, inherited the estate of Presles and thirty 
thousand francs a year. Madame Crevel had be- 
queathed three hundred thousand francs to Baron 
Hulot. The scrofulous Stanislas was to receive, on 
coming of age, the Crevel mansion and an income of 
twenty-four thousand francs. 


Cousin Bette. 


537 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL FATHER. 

Among the numerous and sublime associations insti- 
tuted by the Catholic charity of Paris is one founded 
by Madame de la Chanterie, the object of which is to 
marry legally and ecclesiastically persons of the working 
classes who live together illegitimately. Legislators 
who hold by the statistics of registration, the sovereign 
bourgeoisie which clings to its notarial fees, feign to ig- 
nore that three fourths of the working-people cannot 
pay fifteen francs for a marriage contract. Notaries are 
behind lawyers on this point. The Parisian lawyers, a 
body of men who are a good deal calumniated, bring 
suits gratuitously for the very poor, whereas notaries 
have never been willing to draw a marriage contract 
gratis for such persons. As to the public Treasury, one 
would have to shake the whole machine of government 
to make it relax its system in this matter. Registration 
is deaf and dumb. The Church, on its side, claims cer- 
tain rights over marriage. The Church in France is ex- 
tremely — fiscal ; in the house of God it carries on a 
petty traffic in little benches and chairs which disgusts 
foreigners, though it cannot have forgotten the Saviour’s 
anger when he drove the money-changers from the 
Temple. However, if the church is reluctant to yield its 
sordid rights, we must remember that those rights (called 


538 


Cousin Bette, 


parish property) are to-day one of its means of living, 
and therefore the meanness of the Church is the fault of 
the State. This combination of claims — in days when 
people are thinking far too much of the woes of the 
negro and of the prisoners in jail to consider the suffer- 
ings of the worth}’ poor — results in the fact that a vast 
number of honest persons are living in a state of concu- 
binage solely for lack of thirty francs, the lowest price 
at which a notary, the registration office, the mayor and 
the clergy can marry two Parisians. Madame de la 
Chanterie’s institution, founded for the purpose of put- 
ting such poor households back into the paths of relig- 
ion and virtue, searches out such couples, relieves their 
necessities in the first place, and then restores them to 
their lawful condition as citizens. 

When Madame Hulot had entirely recovered her 
health she went back to her charitable occupations ; 
and about that time the excellent Madame de la Chan- 
terie asked her to add this legalization of natural mar- 
riage to the other good works for which she was an 
agent. 

One of Adeline’s first efforts in this line was in the 
dangerous quarter known formerly as “ Little Poland,” 
inclosed by the rue du Eocher, the rue de la Pepiniere, 
and the rue Meromenil. It forms a sort of annex to 
the faubourg Saint-Marceau. In order to describe this 
neighborhood it is only necessary to say that the own- 
ers of certain houses inhabited b}^ workmen who do no 
work, by roughs, and seditious talkers, by beggars ply- 
ing dangerous trades, are afraid to insist on their rents, 
and seldom find sheriff’s officers who are willing to eject 
those who do not pay. At the present moment specula- 


Comin Bette, 


539 


tion in real estate, which tends toward changing the 
whole face of Paris in this quarter and to build up the 
space which separates the rue d’ Amsterdam from the 
rue de la Faubourg-du-Roule, will doubtless improve 
the character of the inhabitants, and rid the neigh- 
borhood of its sinister population and its low haunts, 
where the police never set foot unless in the pursuit 
of criminals. 

In June, 1844, the appearance of the place Delaborde 
and its surroundings was far from reassuring. If an 
elegant 3 ’oung gentleman had chanced to turn from the 
rue de la Pepiniere into one of these horrible thorough- 
fares he would have been astonished at the squalid Bo- 
hemia Ij’ing cheek b}’ jowl with the aristocratic street. In 
such quarters, where ignorance and abject poverty have 
reached their lowest depth, the street letter-writer of Paris 
still flourishes. Wherever 3 'ou see the two words “ Pub- 
lic Writer,” written in a large, flowing hand on a sheet of 
white paper affixed to the filthy window of some ground- 
floor room, 3 ’ou ma 3 ’’ confidentl 3 ^ believe that the neigh- 
borhood is thronged with illiterate persons, and, as a 
natural result, with vices, crimes, and criminals. Ig- 
norance is the mother of crime, and crime is, above all, 
a lack of reason. 

Now during Madame HuloPs illness this quarter, to 
which she had been a second Providence, acquired the 
services of a public writer, whose sign was hung up 
in the passage du Soleil, — a name which presents an 
antithesis not uncommon in the nomenclatures of Paris ; 
for this “ passage of the sun ” is sunless and doubl 3 "dark. 
This writer, thought to be a German, was named Vyder, 
and lived matrimonially with a 3 ^oung girl, of whom he 


640 


Cousin Bette. 


was so jealous that he would only allow her to visit 
the family of a certain respectable chimney-builder of 
the rue Saint-Lazare, — Italians of course, 'like all others 
of that trade, who had lived many years in Paris. These 
worthy people had been saved from bankruptcy, which 
would have made them poor for life, by Madame Hulot, 
acting on behalf of one of her societies. In the course 
of a few months ease replaced distress, and religion en- 
tered minds which had long cursed fate with the ardor 
characteristic of the Italian nature. One of Madame 
Hulot’ s first visits was to this family. She was de- 
lighted with the sight that met her eyes at their es- 
tablishment in the rue du Rocher. Above the busy 
warehouses and workrooms, where the apprentices and 
laborers, — all Italians from the valley of Domodossola 
— were singing and whistling at their work, the family 
occupied a little apartment now abundantly supplied. 
Madame Hulot was welcomed like a vision of the Blessed 
Virgin. After a quarter of an hour’s talk (being obliged 
to wait for the husband to hear the exact state of af- 
fairs) Adeline began her pious search for persons living 
out of the pale of wedlock by inquiring if there were 
an 3 ' such among the acquaintances of her Italian friends. 

“ Ah, my good lady, you who can save souls from 
hell,” cried the Italian wife, “ 3 "es, there’s a 3 ’oung girl 
living close by who might be dragged from perdition.” 

“ Do you know her? ” asked the baroness. 

“ She is the granddaughter of a former emplo 3 "er of 
my husband, named Judici, who came to France after 
the Revolution, in 1798. During the empire he was one 
of the best chimney-builders in Paris, and he died in 
1819, leaving a fine fortune to his son. But the son 


Cousin Bette. 


541 


spent everything on bad women and finally married 
one of the slyest of them, by whom he had this poor 
little girl, who is about fifteen years old.” 

“ What has happened to her?” said the baroness, 
struck with the resemblance in conduct between the 
father of the girl and her own husband. 

“ Well, madame, the child, named Atala, left her 
father and mother and came to live here with an old 
German, eighty years old at the least, named Vyder ; 
he writes letters and does business for people who don’t 
know how to read or write. They sa}" the old scoun- 
drel bought the girl of her mother for fifteen hundred 
francs, and it would be a good deed if you could get him 
to marry the little thing, — he has but a short time to 
live, and I am told he is likely to come in for several 
thousand francs very soon. The child, who is a little 
angel, would be taken out of evil, and above all out of 
poverty, which is sure to corrupt her.” 

“ Thank you for telling me of so good a thing to do,” 
said Adeline, “ but I must act cautiously. Who is the 
old man?” 

“Well, he’s quite a worthy old fellow, madame; he 
makes the child happy and has excellent good sense 
about her. He left the Judici neighborhood to protect 
her from her mother. The woman was jealous of her 
own daughter ; and she meant to make a penny out of 
her beauty and set her up as a ‘ Mademoiselle.’ Atala 
remembered us, so she advised ‘ monsieur ’ to settle in 
our neighborhood ; and when the good man saw the kind 
of people we are he allowed the little one to come and 
see us. If you will get him to marry her, madame, you 
will do a good action. Once married, the little thing 


542 


Comin Bette. 


will be free of her mother, who watches her and would 
like to see her do better, either at the theatre or in the 
dreadful career*she wants to start in.” 

“ Why does not the old man marry her?” 

“ It was n’t necessary, madame,” said the Italian. 

Old Vyder is not an absolutely bad man ; I think he 
is wise enough to want to stay master of the little thing ; 
whereas if he marries her, he is afraid, poor fellow ! of 
all that hangs over the head of an old husband.” 

“ Can you send for the girl? ” said the baroness ; “I 
will see her here, and judge for myself if there is any 
way — ” 

The Italian signed to her eldest daughter, who ran out, 
and returned ten minutes later leading a young girl be- 
tween fifteen and sixteen, of a beauty that was thoroughly 
Italian. 

Mademoiselle Judici derived from her father that olive 
skin which is yellow by day and dazzling under the 
lamps at night, eyes of Eastern grandeur, shape, and 
brilliancy, lashes curling upward like little jet-black 
feathers, ebon hair, and the majestic carriage of the 
Lombard women, which makes a foreigner fancy, when 
he sees them for the first time, on a Sunday in Milan, 
that these daughters of the people are queens in their 
own right. Atala, told hy the other girl that a great 
lady wanted to speak to her, had hastily put on a pretty 
silk dress, nice boots, and an elegant mantle. A cap 
with cherry-colored ribbons added to the effect of her 
head. The little thing stopped short in an attitude of 
naive curiosity, examining the baroness out of the corner 
of her e3'es, and greatly surprised by the nervous ti’em- 
bling of the lady’s head. 


Cousin Bette, 


643 


“ What is 3’our name, my child? ” 

“Atala, madame.” 

Can you read and write ? ” 

“ No, madame — but that’s no matter, because mon- 
sieur knows how — ” 

‘^Did 3^our parents take you to church? Have you 
made your first communion? Do you know your 
catechism ? ” 

“ Madame, papa wanted me to do those things you 
mention, but mamma would not let me.” 

“Your mother would not let you?” exclaimed the 
baroness ; “ was she unkind to you? ” 

“ She was alwaj's beating me. I don’t know why, 
but mj^ father and mother were continually quarrelling 
about me.” 

“Did no one ever tell you about God?” said the 
baroness. 

The child opened her ej^es wide. 

“ Papa and mamma used to say, ‘ In the name of God ! ’ 
‘ The curse of God ! ’ ” she said, artlessly. 

“ Have you never seen a church? Did it never occur 
to you to go inside of one ? ” 

“ Church? Ah, j’es, Notre-Dame, the Pantheon ; I 
have seen them at a distance when papa took me to 
Paris, but that was verj’ seldom. There were no 
churches in the faubourg.” 

“ What faubourg did you live in? ” 

“ The faubourg.” 

“Yes, but what faubourg?” 

“ Wh3", the rue de Charonne, madame.” 

The inhabitants of the faubourg Saint-Antoine never 
call that famous quarter anything but “ the Faubourg.” 


544 


Cousin Bette. 


To them it is the faubourg par excellence.^ the sovereign 
faubourg ; manufacturers themselves accept the word as 
meaning specially the faubourg Saint- Antoine. 

“ Did no one ever explain to you what is good and 
what is evil ? ” 

“ Mamma whipped me if I did things she did n't 
like." 

“But did you not know you did wrong when you left 
your father and mother and went to live with an old 
man? ” 

Atala Judici looked at the baroness grandly, and said 
nothing. 

“The girl is an absolute barbarian,” thought Adeline. 

“Ah! madame, there are many like her,” said the 
Italian wife who stood by. 

“ But she is ignorant of everything, even sin ! Good 
God ! Wh}' don’t you answer me ? ” continued Madame 
Hulot, trying to take Atala by the hand. 

The child, displeased, drew back. 

“You are an old fool!" she said. ‘‘My father and 
my mother went hungry a week. My mother wanted to 
make something bad of me, and my father beat me and 
called me a thief. Just then Monsieur Vyder came 
and paid my father’s and my mother’s debts and gave 
them money — oh, a whole bagful ! — and he carried me 
away, and my poor papa cried ; but he knew we had to 
say good-by. Well, do you call that wrong?" she 
demanded. 

‘‘Do you love this Monsieur Vyder?” 

“ Do I love him ? " said the child, “ I should think so, 
madame ! He tells me such beautiful stories at night. 
And he has given me pretty dresses and linen and a 


Cousin Bette. 


545 


shawl. I’m tricked out like a princess, I can tell you. 
I never wear wooden shoes now ! And besides, I don’t 
know what it is to go hungry. I get something better 
than potatoes to eat. He brings me sugar-plums, burnt 
almonds ! Oh, isn’t chocolate good? I’d do anything 
he tells me for a bag of chocolate. And my dear old 
papa Vyder is so kind ; he takes such care of me, he 
Soes just what one would think my mother might have 
done. He is going to get an old servant-woman to help 
me, for he says I must n’t spoil my hands cooking. For 
the last month he has earned a good bit of money. He 
brings me three francs every night — which I put away 
in a money-box. The only trouble is he does n’t like 
me to go out — except to come here. But he ’s a love of 
a man, and he does what he likes with me. He calls me 
his ^ little kitten’ — my mother used to call me a ‘ cursed 
little thief,’ a ‘ viper,’ and I don’t know what all.” 

“ Well, then, my child, why should not Monsieur 
Vyder be 3’our husband?” 

“So he is, madame,” said the girl, looking straight 
at the baroness, proudly, without blushing, her brow 
calm and her ej’es clear. “ He told me I was his lit- 
tle wife ; but I should n’t like to be a man’s wife if it 
was n’t for the sugar-plums.” 

“Good God!” said the baroness, in a low voice; 
“ what a monster he must be to take advantage of such 
perfect and holy innocence ! To bring the child back 
to the paths of decency ought to redeem many faults. 
I knew what I was doing,” she murmured, thinking of 
the scene with Crevel; “but she is ignorant of all.” 

“Do you know Monsieur Samanon?” asked little 
Atala, with a coaxing air. 


35 


546 


Cousin Bette, 


“ No, my child ; why do you ask? ” 

“ Really and truly? ” said the girl, shyly. 

“ Don’t be afraid of madame, Atala,” said the Italian 
woman. “ She is an angel.” 

“ Well, my dear old man is afraid Samanon may find 
him. He has to hide ; and I do wislf he could be free.” 

“Why?” 

“ Oh, bless 3’ou ! he ’d take me to Bobino, — perhaps^ 
to the Ambigu.” 

“ You delightful little creature ! ” said the baroness, 
kissing the child. 

“ Are 3'ou rich? ” asked Atala, plaj'ing with Madame 
Hulot’s sleeves. 

“ Yes and no,” replied the baroness. “lam rich for 
good little girls like j’ou, when thej’ are willing to be 
taught their Christian duties by a priest, and to walk 
in the right wa}’.” 

“ What wa3"? ” said Atala. “ I walk on my two legs.” 

She looked sl^d}' at the baroness and laughed. 

“ Look at madame, here,” said the baroness, point- 
ing to the Italian wife ; “ she is happy in her home ; but 
3"ou are only married, like the animals, for a time.” 

“ I ! ” replied Atala ; “ but if 3’ou will give me what 
pere V}- der gives me I should be glad not to be married 
at all. It is a torment — that ’s what it is.” 

“ When once a woman has married a man as you 
have married Monsieur V3’der,” said the baroness, “ vir- 
tue requires her to be faithful to him.” 

“Till he dies?” said Atala, with a shrewd look. 
“ Then I sha’n’t have to wait long. If you only knew 
how pere Vyder coughs and wheezes ! Hu, hu ! ” And 
she imitated the old man. 


Cousin Bette, 


547 


“ Virtue and morality require,” said the baroness, 
“that the Church, which is the representative of God 
on earth, shall consecrate 3'our marriage. See madame 
here ; she was married legitimately.” 

“Would it be more amusing?” asked the child. 

“You would be happier,” said the baroness; “no 
one could then blame you. You would please God. 
Ask madame if she was married without the sacrament 
of marriage.” 

Atala looked at her friend. 

“I don’t see that she is any better than I. I’m 
the prettiest.” 

“ Yes, but I am an honest woman, -and folks can 
give you a bad name,” said the Italian. 

‘ ‘ How can you expect God to protect you if you 
trample under foot all laws, both human and divine ?” 
said the baroness. “ Don’t you know that God keeps 
a paradise for those who live according to his will ? ” 

“What is there in paradise, — any theatres ? ” 

“Paradise,” said the baroness, “means all the hap- 
piness you can possibly imagine. It is filled with angels 
with shining wings. God is there in all his glory ; we 
share his power, we are happy to all eternity.” 

Atala Judici listened to the baroness as she might 
have listened to music. Seeing that she was totally un- 
able to understand her, Adeline thought she had better 
take the surer means of appealing to the old man. 

“ Go home now, my dear little girl,” she said, “ and 
I will follow, and talk with Monsieur Vyder. Is he a 
Frenchman ? ” 

“He is an Alsatian, madame. He is going to be 
very rich some day. If you could only pay what he 


548 


Cousin Bette • 


owes to that villain Samanon he would return you the 
money ; he will have six thousand francs a j^ear in a 
few months, so he says, and then we are going to live 
in the country, ever so far away, down in the Vosges.” 

The word Vosges sent the baroness into a passing 
reverie ; her mind reverted to her native village ; but 
she was presently roused by the entrance of the chim- 
ney-builder himself, who came to give her the partic- 
ulars of his prosperity. 

“ In another year, madame,” he said, ending his tale, 
“ I shall be able to pay back the loan you made me. 
I call it the money of the good God. It is that of 
the poor and the unfortunate. If I make a fortune 
3’ou shall put your hand in mj’ purse. I will return to 
others, through you, the benefits you have given to us.” 

“Just now,” said the baroness, smiling, “ I will not 
ask you for money, but for your help in a good work. 
I have just been talking with that little Judici who lives 
with an old man. I want them to be married legally, 
and by the Church as well.” 

“ Ah, old Vyder ! He ’s a worthy fellow, and knows 
what he is about. He has made friends already through 
the neighborhood, though he has been here only two 
months. He is now making out my bills. Ah, how 
he loves Napoleon ! He was one of the old colonels ; 
he’s decorated, but he never wears the cross. He 
says he ’s waiting till he can show his face in the world. 
He has debts, poor man ! I think myself he is hiding 
for fear of arrest.” 

“ Tell him I will pay his debts if he will marry the 
child.” 

“ Then it will be soon done. Come, madame, sup- 


Cousin Bette, 


549 


pose we go and see him. He lives close by, in the 
passage du Soleil.” 

The Italian showed Madame Hulot the wa3^ 

The passage du Soleil is really the beginning of the 
rue de la Pepiniere, and it opens on the rue du Rocher. 
About the middle of this recently created passage (the 
rental of its little shops being ver}" low indeed) the bar- 
oness observed in the upper panes of a window, cur- 
tained from inquisitive ej'es b\" a draper^" of old green 
silk, the words, “Public Writer,” and on the panel of 
the door a further notice : “ Business Office. Here peti- 
tions are drawn up, bills made out, copying done, etc. 
Discretion. Celerity’.” 

The interior was something like those waiting-rooms 
at the omnibus-stations where people congregate to 
make connections. A staircase led up to an apartment 
above which belonged to the shop or office. The bar- 
oness noticed a bureau in whitewood, now blackened, 
a few engravings, and a cheap armchair. A man’s cap 
and a green shade for the eyes with a steel spring, both 
extremely dirty, showed either certain precautions taken 
to conceal his identity or a failure of eyesight on the 
part of the old man. 

“ He is upstairs,” said the Italian. “ I ’ll go up and 
call him.” 

The baroness lowered her veil and sat down. A 
heavy step shook the little wooden staircase, and Ade- 
line could not restrain a shriek when she saw her hus- 
band in a gray knitted jacket, a pair of old woollen 
trousers, and slippers. 

“ What can I do for you, madame?” said the baron, 
gallantly. Adeline rose, seized him, and said in a voice 
breathless with emotion : — 


550 


Cousin Bette, 


“ At last I have found 3^ou ! ” 

“ Adeline ! cried the baron, stupefied, but turning to 
fasten the street door. “Joseph!” he cried to the 
Italian, “go out the back-wa}’.” 

friend,” said his wife, forgetting everything in 
the excess of her joy ; ‘ ‘ you can come back to the 
bosom of your family ; we are rich ! Your son has a 
hundred and sixty thousand francs a j^ear ; your debts 
are all paid, j^our pension is free, and j^ou have fifteen 
thousand francs waiting to be drawn on the certificate 
of your existence. Valerie is dead ; she bequeathed to 
you a large sum of money. Your past is forgotten ; 
don’t be afraid! }^ou can safely re-enter life. Come 
back, and our happiness will be complete. For three 
5"ears I have searched all Paris for you ; I knew I 
should find j’ou. Your room is read}’ to receive you. 
Oh, come, come away from this dreadful place ! ’’ 

“Yes, willingly,” said the baron, half-bewildered; 
“but can I take the little one with me?” 

“ Hector, you must give her up ! make that sacrifice 
to your Adeline ! I promise to give the child a dowry, 
to have her educated, to marry her well. It shall never 
be said that any one of those who have made you happy 
has suffered for it, or fallen into disgrace or vice.” 

“ So it was you,” said the baron, smiling, “ who came 
to make me marry her? — Wait here a few minutes ; I 
have suitable clothes in a trunk upstairs ; I ’ll go and 
put them on.” 

When Adeline was alone she looked again round the 
horrible den and burst into tears. “ He lived here ! ” 
she exclaimed, “ while we were in luxury ! Poor man, 
how bitterly he is punished — he who was elegance 
itself! ” 


Cousin Bette. 


551 


The Italian came back at this moment and the bar- 
oness sent him for a carriage. When the man returned 
Adeline begged him to take the little Atala into his 
famil}’, and to carry her awaj^ at once. 

“Tell her,” she said, “that if she will put herself 
under the instruction of the cure of the Madeleine, I will 
give her thirty thousand francs on the day she makes 
her first communion, and I will find her a good husband, 
some fine 3'oung man.” 

“ My eldest son, madame ! He is twentj^-two years 
old, and he adores the child.” 

The baron came down at this moment; his eyes 
were wet. 

“You force me,” he whispered to his wife, “to 
leave the only creature I have ever known whose love 
could be compared with yours ! The poor little girl 
is dissolved in tears — I cannot abandon her in this 
way.” 

“Don’t fear. Hector; she is going among kind and 
worth}’ people ; I will answer for her good conduct.” 

“Ah! then I am ready to follow you,” said the 
baron, taking his wife to the carriage. 

Hector, once more Baron Hulot d’Erv}’, had donned 
trousers and frock coat of blue cloth, a white waistcoat, 
black cravat, and a pair of gloves. Just as the bar- 
oness seated herself in the carriage Atala slipped in 
after her like a lizard. 

“Ah, madame,” she said, “let me go with you. 
I ’ll be very obedient ; I ’ll do just what j’ou tell me ; 
but don’t part me from pere Vyder, who has been so 
good to me ; who gives me such pretty things — I shall 
be whipped at home.” 


) 


552 


Cousin Bette. 


“ No, Atala,” said the baron ; ‘‘this is my wife, and 
we must part.” 

“ She? that old woman, who shakes like a leaf! Oh, 
see her head ! ” 

And she mimicked Madame Hulot’s infirmity. The 
Italian was standing b}" the door of the carriage and 
the baroness signed to him. 

‘ ‘ Take her away,” she said. 

The man took Atala in his arms and carried her off 
by force. 

“Thank you for making me that sacrifice, dear 
friend,” said Adeline, taking the baron’s hand and 
pressing it with almost delirious joy. “ How changed 
3’ou are ! How you must have suffered I What a sur- 
prise for your children ; how happy we shall be I ” 

Adeline talked, as lovers talk who meet after a long 
absence, of a hundred things in a minute. When they 
reached the rue Louis-le-Grand she found the following 
letter : — 

Madame la baronne, — Monsieur d’Ervy lived a month 
in the rue de Charonne, under the name of Thorec, anagram of 
Hector. He is now in the passage du Soleil, under the name 
of Vyder. He calls himself an Alsatian, does writing, and 
lives with a young girl named Atala Judici. Be cautious, 
madaine, for others are actively in search of Monsieur le 
baron, — for what purpose I do not know. 

The actress has kept her word, and remains as ever, Ma- 
dame la baronne, 

^ Your humble servant, J. M. 

The baron’s return excited such family joy that he 
gave himself up to the delights of his home. He forgot 


Cousin Bette. 


553 


his little Atala, for one of the effects of indulged pas- 
sion was to make his feelings as volatile as those of a 
child. The satisfaction of the family’’ was however less- 
ened by the great physical change which had come over 
him. He had left them a hale old man ; he returned 
almost a centenarian, broken, bent, and debased in 
countenance. At their first dinner, with luxuries im- 
provised by Celestine which reminded him of Jos^pha’s 
feasts, he whispered to Adeline : — 

“You have killed the fatted calf for the prodigal 
father.” 

“ Hush ! ” she said, “ all is forgotten.” 

“ Where is Lisbeth? ” asked the baron, noticing the 
old maid’s absence. 

“ Alas,” said Hortense, “ she is confined to her bed ; 
she never leaves it, and I fear we are to lose her soon. 
She hopes to see you after dinner.” 

The next day, at sunrise, Victorin was informed by 
the porter that a body of the municipal guard had sur- 
rounded his whole property. They were in search of 
Hulot. The officer in charge followed the porter and 
presented documents by which it appeared that the 
baron owed notes for ten thousand francs to a usurer 
named Samanon, from whom he had probably received 
two or three thousand at the utmost. Victorin paid the 
notes and requested the officer to withdraw his men. 
“ Is that the whole?” he thought to himself, uneasily. 

Lisbeth, unhappy enough already at the good fortune 
of the family, could not endure this additional happi- 
ness. She grew so rapidly worse that Bianchon an- 
nounced she must die in a week, — conquered at last in 
the long struggle where she had scored so many victo- 


554 


Cousin Bette, 


ries. She kept the secret of her hatred through the weary 
dying anguish of pulmonarj” consumption ; and found 
supreme satisfaction in seeing Adeline, Hortense, Hu- 
lot, Victorin, Steinbock, Celestine, and the children, in 
tears around her bed, considering her the angel of the 
family. Baron Hulot, restored by a good diet, began to 
look himself again ; and Adeline was so peacefully 
happ3" that the nervous quiver of her head and hands 
diminished sensibly. “ She will end by being happy,” 
thought Lisbeth the evening before her death, as she 
noticed the veneration which the baron showed for his 
wife, whose sufferings had been told to him by Hortense 
and by Victorin. The sight hastened Bette’s end ; and 
her coffin was followed by the whole family in tears. 

The baron and baroness Hulot, who had now reached 
an age when life needs absolute repose, gave up their 
handsome apartments on the first floor to the Comte 
and Comtesse Steinbock, and removed to the floor 
above. The baron, through the influence of his son, 
obtained a situation on a railway at the beginning of the 
year 1845, with a salary of six thousand francs ; this 
with his pension and the interest of the money left him 
by Madame Crevel gave him an income of twenty-four 
thousand francs. Hortense had been separated from 
her husband as to property during the three j^ears’ quar- 
rel, and Victorin no longer hesitated to make over to 
her the two hundred thousand francs entrusted to him 
by the Prince de Wissembourg ; he gave her, moreover, 
from his own funds an annuity of twelve thousand 
francs. Wenceslas, as the husband of a rich woman, 
was never unfaithful to her again, but he idled and 
lounged, always unable to settle to any work, however 


Cousin Bette. 


555 


unimportant it might be. Once more an artist in parti- 
bus.^ he had great success in society and was much con- 
sulted by amateurs. He came to be thought a past- 
master of criticism, like other incapables who fall below 
their natural promise. 

Each of the three households was thus independent in 
means, though they continued to live together as one 
family. Learning wisdom from her misfortunes, the 
baroness allowed her son to manage her money mat- 
ters, and confined the baron to his own income, trusting 
that its limitations might keep him from falling back 
into his old eiTors. But, by an unexpected happiness, 
on which neither the mother nor the son had really 
counted, the baron appeared to have renounced the fair 
sex. This tranquillity, which might be attributed to 
his age, had so far reassured his family that they en- 
joyed without a sense of distrust the delightful amiability 
and charming domestic manners of the old baron. Full 
of little attentions to his wife and children, he accom- 
panied them to the theatre and reappeared with them in 
society ; and he did the honors of his son’s salon with a 
grace that was all his own. In short, the prodigal 
father, restored to the bosom of his family, was a con- 
stant satisfaction to them. He was a charming old 
man, completely used up, but still lively and witty, with 
no remains of his vice except that part of it which can 
be turned into a social virtue. The whole family lived 
therefore in complete security. Mother and children 
praised the father to the skies, — forgetting the death 
of the two uncles. 

Madame Victorin was a good housekeeper, made so 
in part by cousin Bette’s instructions, and the necessities 


556 


Cousin Bette. 


of her great household compelled her to hire a man-cook. 
The man-cook required a scullion. Such girls are very 
ambitious in these days ; their object is to get the secrets 
of the chef, and to be cooks themselves as soon as they 
know how to concoct a sauce. The consequence is 
that scullions are a class of servants who are contin- 
ually changing. At the beginning of December, 1845, 
Celestine engaged a stout Norman woman from Isigny 
with a short waist, red arms, and a common face ; 
stupid, moreover, as an owl, and who could with diffi- 
culty be persuaded to abandon the classic cotton caps 
which the women of lower Normand}^ inherit. This 
girl, with the figure of a wet-nurse, threatened to burst 
the calico gown which enclosed her bust. Her rudd}’ 
face really looked as if cut in stone, so firm were its 3 ^el- 
lowish outlines. Naturally no one in the famil}’ took 
an}’ notice of the amval of this girl, who was named 
Agatha, one of the many whom the provinces send daily 
to Paris. Agatha presented no temptations to the cook, 
for she was vulgar in language, having lived among 
carters and served in country taverns ; instead, therefore, 
of making a conquest of the chef and getting out of him 
the secrets of his fine dishes, she was merely an object 
of his contempt. The cook was courting Louise, Ma- 
dame Steinbock’s maid. Agatha considered herself ill- 
treated ; she was sent out on errands on any excuse or 
no excuse, when the chef was finishing a dish or per- 
fecting a sauce. “ I ’ve no chance,” she said to herself, 
“ and I ’ll go somewhere else.” Nevertheless she stayed. 

One night Adeline, wakened by an unusual noise, 
missed Hector from the adjoining bed ; she w’aited an 
hour, expecting his return. Terrified, fancying some 


Cousin Bette. 


557 


catastrophe, paralysis or apoplexy, she went up to the 
attic floor to call the servants, and was attracted to Asa- 
tha’s room by a bright light and a murmur of voices. 
Suddenl}^ she stopped short, horror-stricken on hearing 
the baron’s voice. Seduced by the woman’s charms, he 
was saying, in answer to her shrewd resistance : “ M 3 ’ 
wife has n’t long to live ; and I will marr}’ 3 'ou.” Ade- 
line uttered a cry, dropped her candlestick, and fled 
downstairs. 

Three da 3 ’s later, after receiving the last sacraments, 
Madame Hulot la}" dying, surrounded by her famil}" in 
tears. A moment before she expired she took her hus- 
band’s hand, pressed it, and whispered, “ Friend, m 3 " 
life is all that is left me to give ; you are now free ; 3 ’ou 
can take another wife.” 

The survivors saw, what is rare indeed, two tears 
issuing from the e 3 "es of a corpse. The ferocity of vice 
had worn out the patience of an angel, from whose hps, 
on the borders of eternit}", came the sole word of re- 
proach she had ever uttered. 

Baron Hulot left Paris three days after his wife’s 
funeral. Eleven months later Victorin heard indirectly 
of his father’s marriage with Mademoiselle Agatha 
Piquetard, which took place at Isigny on the 1st of Feb- 
ruary, 1846. 

“ Parents can opiX)se their children’s marriage, but 
children cannot prevent the follies of their childish 
parents,” said Hulot, junior, to his friend Popinot, the 
second son of the minister of Commerce, who talked to 
him about the marriage. 






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BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


LOUIS LAMBERT. 


’As for Balzac,” writes Oscar Wilde, “ he was a most remarkable combination 
of the artistic temperament with the scientific spirit.” It is his artistic tempera- 
ment which reveals itself the most clearly in the novel before us. As we read 
“ Louis Lambert,” we feel convinced that it is largely autobiographical. It is a 
psychical study as delicate as Amiel’s Journal, and nearly as spiritual. We follow 
the life of the sensitive, poetical schoolboy, feeling that it is a true picture of Bal- 
zac’s own youth. When the literary work on which the hero had written for years 
in all his spare nioments is destroyed, we do not need to be told by Mr. Parsons 
that this is an episode in Balzac’s own experience : we are sure of this fact already; 
and no writer could describe so sympatheticall}' the deep spiritual experiences of 
an aspiring soul who had not at heart felt them keenly. No materialist could have 
written “ Louis Lambert.” — Boston Transcript. 

Of all of Balzac’s works thus far translated by Miss Katharine Prescott Wormeley, 
the last in the series, “ Louis Lambert,” is the most difficult of comprehension. 
It is the second of the author’s Philosophipal Studies, “The Magic Skin” being 
the first, and “ Seraphita,” shortly to be published, being the third and last. In 
‘‘Louis Lambert” Balzac has presented a study of a noble soul — a spirit of 
exalted and lofty aspirations which chafes under the fetters of earthly existence, 
and h^ no sympathy with the world of materialism. This pure-souled genius is 
made ^le medium, moreover, for the enunciation of the outlines of a system of 
philosophy which goes to the very roots of Oriental occultism and mysticism as its 
source, and which thus reveals the marvellous scope of Balzac’s learning. The 
scholarly introduction to the book by George Frederic Parsons, in addition to 
throwing a great deal of valuable light upon other phases of the work, shows how 
many of the most recent scientific theories are directly in line with the doctrines 
broadly set forth by Balzac nearly sixty years ago. The book is one to be studied 
rather than read ; and it is made intelligible by the extremely able introduction 
and by Miss Wormeley’s excellent translation. — The Book-Bjiyer- 

“ Louis Lambert,” with the two other members of the Trilogy, ” La Peau de 
Chagrin” and “Seraphita,” is a book which presents many difficulties to the 
student. It deals with profound and unfamiliar subjects, and the meaning of the 
author by no means lies on the surface. It is the study of a great, aspiring soul 
enshrined in a feeble body, the sword wearing out the scabbard, the spirit soaring 
away from its prison-house of flesh to its more congenial home. It is in marked 
contrast to the study of the destructive and debasing process which we see in the 
“ Peau de Chagrin.” It stands midway between this study of the mean and base 
and that noble presentation of the final evolution of a soul on the very borders of 
Divinity which Balzac gives us in ” Seraphita.” 

The reader not accustomed to such high ponderings needs a guide to place him 
en rapport with the Seer. Such a guide and friend he finds in Mr. Parsons, 
whose introduction of one hundred and fifty pages is by no means the least valu- 
able part of this volume. It is impossible to do more than sketch the analysis of 
Balzac’s philosophy and the demonstration so successfully attempted by Mr. Par- 
sons of the exact correlation between many of Balzac’s speculations and the 
newest scientific theories. The introduction is so closely written that it defies 
much condensation. It is so intrinsically valuable that it will thoroughly repay 
careful and minute study. — From “ Light," a London Journal of Psychical and 
Occult Research, March 9,1889. 

« 

One handsome' \2mo volume, unifor^n with Plre Goriotf The 
Duchesse de Langeais,'' “ Cesar Birotteau,^' “ Eugenie Grandetf 
‘‘ Cousin Pons," ” The Country DoctorP “ The Two Brothers f “ The 
Alkahest^'' Modeste Mignon,'' “ The Magic Shin," '•'‘Cousin Bette." 
Bound in half morocco, French Style. Price, ^1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston. 


BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


The Magic Skin. 

(LA PEAU DE CHAGRIN.) 

TRANSLATED BY 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 

♦ 

“The Magic Skin” is a great novel, — great in its conception, great in its 
execution, and great in the impression it leaves upon the reader’s mind. Those 
who deny that Balzac is a moral teacher will retract their opinion after reading this 
powerful allegory. It is a picturesque representation of the great moral truth that 
m life we have to pay for every excess we enjoy. In the gradual shrinking of the 
“Magic Skin” we see the inevitable law that by uncontrolled dissipation of body 
or mind we use up our physical strength and exhaust our vitality. In that beauti- 
ful, cold, fascinating character, Fedora, the writer shows us the glittering world of 
fashion and frivolity which men pursue vainly and find tolheir cost only dust and 
ashes. In the gentle, loving, and devoted Pauline, Balzac represents the lasting 
and pure pleasures of domestic life. But in Raphael’s short enjoyment of them 
we see the workings of Ahat inflexible law, “ Whatever ye sow that shall ye also 
reap.” In the vivid, striking, realistic picture of Parisian life which Balzac pre- 
sents to us in “ The Magic Skin,” the writer had a conscious moral purpose. We 
know of no more awful allegory in literature. — Boston Transcript. ' 

The story is powerful and original ; but its readers will be most affected by its 
marvellous knowledge of human nature, and the deep-cutting dissection of charac- 
ter which makes the attempts of our own analytical novelists appear superficial 
and experimental. Life in all classes of the Pans of Louis Philippe’s time is por- 
trayed in the strongest lights and shadows, and with continual flashes of wit, 
satire, and sarcasm which spare neither politician, philosopher, priest, poet, jour- 
nalist, artist, man of the world, nor woman of the world. Through a maze of 
heterogeneous personages Raphael, the nero, is carried, pursued by the relentless 
Magic Skin, which drives him mercilessly to his dpom. The vices of high society 
are laid bare ; but there is also a beautiful exposition of purity in the humble life 
of Pauline, who is the good angel of the story. In translating “ La Peau de Cha- 
grin ” Miss Wormeley has done work that is at once skilful and discreet. It is a 
man’s book, virile though not vulgar, and exposing prominences in French social 
views such as most writers veil in obscurities. Here all is frankly and honestly 
shown, but by a man of genius, who had no more need of prudish hypocrisy than 
Shakespeare. 

Mr. Parsons’s thoughtful preface is a fitting introduction to the most wonder- 
ful of all Balzac’s romances. It is not a whit too strong for Mr. Parsons to write 
that, saving Shakespeare, “no man could have been better fitted to examine men- 
tal processes, to gauge their effects, to estimate their significance, and to define 
their nature and scope” than Balzac. If Balzac had been a German, and not a 
Frenchman of the French, this book of his would be as much of an epoch-maker 
as Goethe’s “ Faust.” It may take years before the fuller appreciation of “ La 
Peau de Chagrin ” comes, but it is a study of life which will be studied in cen- 
turies yet to come. — New York Times. 


One handsome \2.mo volume., uniform with P^rS Goriotf “ The 
Duchesse de Langeaisf Cesar Birotteauf Eugenie Grandet,'^ 
“ Cousin Ponsf “ The Country Doctor f “ The Two Brothers f “ The 
Alkahest f and Modeste MignonP Bound in half morocco., French 
style. Price, ^ 1 . 50 . 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston. 


BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


Modeste Mignon. 

TRANSLATED BY 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 


In “ Modeste Mignon ” we still have that masterly power of analysis, keen, 
incisive, piercing superficiality and pretence, as a rapier pierces a doublet, but we 
have in addition the purity and sweetness of a genuine light comedy, — a comedy 
which has for its central object the delineation of the mysteries of a young girl’s 
mind. 

As a whole, “ Modeste Mignon ” is not only a masterpiece of French art, but 
a masterpiece of that master before whom later novelists must pale their ineffec- 
tual fires. As the different examples of Balzac’s skill are brought before the pub- 
lic through the excellent translations by Miss Wormeley, none competent to judge 
can fail to perceive the power of that gigantic intellect which projected and carried 
out the scheme of the Com^die Humaine, nor fail to understand the improvement 
in literature that would result if Balzac’s methods and aims were carefully studied 
by all who aspire to the name of novelist. — New York Home Jourtial. 

The public owes a debt of gratitude to the industrious translator of Balzac’s 
masterpieces. They follow one another with sufficient rapidity to stand in striking 
contrast with each other. The conscientioirs reader of them cannot but lay down one 
after another with an incrpsing admp-ation for their author’s marvellous grasp upon 
the great social forces which govern the thought and actions of men. In Modeste 
Mignon,” as in ” Eugenie Grandet,” we find that the tremulous vibrations of first 
love in the heart of a young and pure-minded girl are not deemed unworthy of this 
great artist’s study. The delicate growth of a sentiment which gradually expanded 
into a passion, and which was absolutely free from any taint of sensuality, is 
analyzed in “ Modeste Mignon” with consummate skill. The plot of this book 
is far fi’om extraordinary. It is even commonplace. But where in these days 
shall we find another author who can out of such a simple plot make a story like 
the one before us ? The many-sidedness of Balzac’s genius is widely acknowl- 
edged ; but there are probably few people among those whose acquaintance with 
his writings has been necessarily limited to translations who could conceive of him 
producing such a bright and sparkling story, thoroughly realistic, full of vitalizing 
power, keen analysis, and_ depth of study and reflection, brilliantly imaginative, 
and showing an elasticity in its creative process which cannot fail to attract every 
lover of a higher and better art in fiction. 

But light and delicate as Balzac’s touch generally is throughout this volume, 
there is also shown a slumbering force which occasionally awakens and delivers a 
blow that seems as if it had been struck by the hammer of Thor. He ranges over 
the whole scale of human passion and emotion, penetrates into the very inmost 
chambers of the heart, apprehends its movements, and lays bare its weakness 
with a firm and yet delicate touch of his scalpel. The book has been excellently 
translated by Miss Wormeley. She is fully in sympathy with the author, and has 
caught his spirit, and the result is a translation which preserves tlie fidl flavor, 
vigor, and delicacy of the original. 


One handsome i2mo volume, uniform with Plre Goriotf “ The 
Duchesse de Lan^eaisf '•'•Char BirotteauP '•'Eugenie Grandet 
''Cousin Pons," " The Country Doctor," "The Two Brothers," and 
" The Alkahest," Half morocco, French style. Price, $i.^o. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston. 


BALZAC IN ENGLISH 


THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


“ That exceedingly rare thing, — a French novel possessing all the virile nervous- 
ness of its kind and yet wholesome to the core, elevating in its tendency, and fret 
even from the slightest moral taint or uncleanness, — we have it in Balzac’s * Coun- 
try Doctor.’ It IS, if we mistake not, the fifth of the series of Balzac translations 
which the well-known Boston firm had the enterprise and the good fortune to 
publish. For though somewhat daring at first as an experiment, there is now 
no doubt that as the publishers sensibly enriched English literature by those ex- 
quisite translations of an author all too long neglected and overlooked by English- 
speaking people, so the venture has also proved a profitable one for them in a 
monetary sense. And here it must be said that if regret at anything in this book 
has to be expressed it is because of the continued omission of the name of the 
translator. In that respect the book is almost a marvel. This translation can no 
more be compared to the usual slapdash work glutting the market, made by per- 
sons lacking almost every requisite necessary for the task, than .Balzac himself can 
be compared to the salacious, hollow-brained scamps who in English minds figure 
exclusively as French novelists. The translation is, in fact, exquisite. . . . 
The person who did the translation combines these two rare qualifications, — a 
thorough knowledge of French and a perfect mastery over English.” — //ew York 
Graphic. 

“The many-sidedness of Balzac’s genius is strikingly exhibited in ‘ Le Medicin 
de Campagne.’ It demonstrates also the injustice of much of the criticism di- 
rected against this great writer by Sainte-Beuve and others who have followed 
his lines of interpretation. It is significant that this book was one of Balzac’s 
favorites. It is significant because the work is characterized by none of the 
qualities which it has been customary to attribute to his fiction, and which do, in 
fact, appear in much of it. The ‘ Country Doctor ’ is not a novel in the ordinary 
sense of the term. It is rather a prose poem, and one of the most beautiful, capti- 
vating, and ennobling in any literature. Balzac himself said of it that it was a pic- 
ture of ‘ the Gospel in action,’ and the definition is keen and succinct. It is indeed 
a story of the noblest and most practical philanthropy, so enriched by philosophy, so 
broadened by profound economic analysis, so full of deep suggestion and piercing 
criticism of social problems that it might constitute a statesman’s text-book, and 
convey useful ideas to the most experienced administrators. . . . The devotion of 
the country doctor to the community whose interests he had taken in charge is in- 
deed touching and beautiful, but such instances are not wholly unfamiliar. Wha/ 
gives this story its charm and distinction is the art of the writer in developing 
Before us, by the simplest and least obtrusive means, one of those really majestic 
characters whose lives men follow with never-failing interest, and whose biogra- 
phies constitute the most fascinating literature, since they illustrate and stimulate 
the higher potentialities latent in every human breast. ... It only remains to be 
said that Miss Wormeley has translated the book excellently, and has preserved 
as nearly as possible every shade of the author’s meaning. The enterprise of the 
publishers in undertaking to English Balzac is certainly commendable, but it 
could not have succeeded as it has but for the good fortune which sent them so 
capable and sympathetic a translator.” — New York Tribune. 

One handsome izmo volume y uniform with Pere Goriotf 
“ Duchesse de Langeaisf “ Cisar Birotteauf “ Eugirne Grandetf 
and “ Cousm PonsP Bound in half moroccOy French style. 
Pricey $1.50. 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 


BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 

— ■ ■ to#' 

“ It is quite possible that many French students may be somewhat puzzled to 
encounter that storj' of Balzac’s which they have always known under the title of 
‘ Un Menage de Gargon,’ in the strange and unfamiliar appellation ‘The Two 
Brothers.’ The explanation is simple enough, and it is interesting as illustrating 
one of Balzac’ s peculiarities. A number of his books underwent many changes 
before they crystallized permanently in the edition definitive. Some of them were 
begun in a newspaper or review, carried along some distance in that way, then 
dropped, to appear presently enlarged, altered, ‘grown,’ as is said of children, 
‘ out of knowledge.’ The ‘ History of Balzac’s Work.s,’ by Charles de Lovenjoul, 
gives all the details of these bewildering metamorphoses. The first title of the 
present story was that which the American translator has selected, namely, ‘ Les 
deux Freres.’ The first part of it appeared in La Presse in 1S41 with this desig- 
nation, and in 184^ it was published in two volumes without change of title. The 
second part (now incorporated with the first) appeared in La Presse in 1842, under 
the title ‘ Un Menage de Gargon en Province,’ and figured as the continuation of 
‘ The Two Brothers ’ In 1843 the two parts were brought together, and the 
whole published as ‘ Un Menage de Gargon en Province.’ Balzac, however, was 
not yet satisfied. Having announced yet another title, namely, ‘ Le Bonhomme 
Rouget,’ he abandoned that, cancelled both the former ones, and called the tale, 
in the definitive edition of his works, ‘ La Rabouilleuse,’ after Flore Brazier, one 
of the characters in it. There can be no doubt that Miss Wormeley has chosen 
the most apposite of all these titles. The real subject is the career of the two 
brothers, Philippe and Joseph Bridau.” — New York Tribuiie. 

“ Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston, have added to the excellent translations 
they have already published of several of Balzac’s most famous novels a translation 
of ‘The Two Brothers,’ which forms a sequence in ‘Scenes from Provincial Life.’ 
As with the other novelfe that have preceded it, nothing but the highest praise can 
be awarded the work of the translator. It gives to the reader of English a remark- 
able rendering of Balzac’s nervous, idiomatic French ; and it presents the novel- 
reader a novel that must challenge his comparisons with the popular novels of the 
times. One cannot read far in Balzac’s pages without feeling refreshed by contact 
with a vigorous intellect. In this story he attempted to display two opposite types 
of character in brothers^ which had been inherited by them from different ances- 
tors. In order to do this effectively he introduces in a few opening pages these 
ancestors, before coming^to the real action of the story. . . . There is no plot, no 
intrigue, no aim whatever except to depict the characters of Joseph, Philippe, the 
mother, and the immediate friends about them. All this is done, however, with 
such vivid reality that it fascinates the attention. It is like watching an artist de- 
velop with telling colors a great breathing, living picture. It is, in its way, a study 
of evolution. ‘ Perhaps I have never drawn a picture,’ said Balzac, in reference 
to the book, ‘ that shows more plainly how essential to European society is the 
indissoluble marriage bond, how fatal the results of feminine weakness, how great 
the dangers arising from selfish interests when indulged without restraint.’ There 
are many Philippes in the world outside of France; the shrewd, selfish, swaggerr 
ing Philippes who march through life rough-shod, regardless of kindred, friends, 
or foes. Here is the man painted to the life for all time, and any country. Here 
also is the woman, with all her simplicity and weakness, who always and ever fails 
to gauge rightly this sort of man ; who is doomed to be his slave and victim. 
Balzac met them in his Parisian world forty years ago, and here they take their 

f ilaces in his comedy of human life. While there are such strong portraitures in 
iterature as these novels, it is not easy to understand how so many weak, flimsy, 
pretentious ones find any readers at all. Let us have Balzac in excellent transla- 
tion by all means, — all that remarkable series that are still quite as good as new 
to the great majority of the English-speaking people.” — Brooklyn Citizen. 

— ♦ — 

One handsome i2mo volume., tiniform -with Pire Goriot,'* “ The 
Duchesse de Langeais,'' ^^Cesar Birotieau,'^ Eugenie Grand et'-^ ^‘Cousin 
Pons," and “ The Country Doctor." Half morocco. French style. 
Price. ^1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 


BALZAC IN ENOLISH 


EUGENIE GRANDET. 

A GREAT NOVEL. 

“ Honors de Balzac wrote many books to each of which this title may justly 
be applied. We apply it in the present instance to ‘ Eugenie Grandet,’ one oi 
his very greatest works, — one which, in the opinion of a large number of persons, 
divides with ‘ Le P^re Goriot ’ the honor of being his masterpiece. Englishmen 
are prone to hold that in English fiction there is no such beautiful and complete 
embodiment of a good woman as Fielding’s Amelia ; Frenchmen, we should fancy, 
must ascribe a similar position to Eugenie Grandet. The book of which she is the 
central figure, the Rembrandt-contrast to the ignoble spirits by whom she is sur- 
rounded, has been beyond a doubt one of the most widely read of French novels; 
and now that it has been rendered into excellent English, and presented in a 
highly attractive form, it will undoubtedly pass into the mental experience of a 
multitude who would otherwise have lacked more than a hearsay knowledge of 
its beauty. The translation of the novels so far published by the Messrs. Roberts 
Brothers deserves more than the mere word that can be given to it here. Although 
French is a language much easier to read than German, it is a far more difficult 
task to turn French prose into idiomatic English prose than to do the same by 
German, and we do not remember ever to have seen any translation of French 
into English which is so near being uniformly idiomatic as these versions of 
Balzac now under consideration.” — Boston Post. 

“ Not to know Balzac, Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson has declared to be an 
ignorance ‘ that will soon be excuseless, and we hope rare.’ Not to know Balzac 
is certainly to lose one of the highest intellectual pleasures and to shut out one of 
the profoundest educational forces of literature in thi& century. Balzac’s work is 
throughout full of power.” — Brooklyn Times. 

” This volume comes to us as the fourth in the series of translations of Balzac’s 
novels, published by this well-known Boston house. His sketches of character 
are nowhere more strong and masterly than in this book, where he depicts the 
miser, Grandet, in all the repulsiveness which belongs to a narrow, grasping, and 
unscrupulous nature, in contrast with his patient, long-suffering, repressed, but 
faithful and tender wife. Their only child, Eugenie, is the heroine of the story; 
and her strong, simple, and loving nature, which leads her to sacrifice her future 
for a brilliant but unworthy cousin, who wins her heart, and then forgets her in 
his search for a more ambitious alliance, furnishes a theme where Balzac’s literary 
skill and keen analysis of motives are seen at their best. We regret that the 
name of the translator has not been made public, for his work is well done, and 
deserves special commendation in these days, when so many poor translations of 
fcreign works are offered to the public.” — Portland Press. 

The London Athenceum says of the translation of Balzac which Roberts 
'Brothers are publishing, that it is “ very much above the average of English 
translation of French.” 

One handsome \2mo volume, uniform with ” Pire Goriot, Duchesse de 
Langeais," and ” Cisar Birotteau.” Botmd in half morocco, French style- 
Price, $1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston. 


BALZAC IN ENGLISH, 


COUSIN PONS. 

« 1 ' 

“ It is late in the day to speak of the genius of Balzac, but it is worth while to 
TOmmend the reader to the admirable translation of a number of his works 
issued by an American firm of publishers. The work of Miss Wormeley, whose 
name does not appear upon the titlepage, but who is said to be the translator, is 
deserving of the highest praise. Balzac’s intensely idiomatic French, as well as 
his occasional treatment of recondite subjects, and his frequent elucidation of 
complicated business transactions, render the translation of his works difficult; but 
the present translator has turned the original into clear and fluent English, read- 
ing not at all like a translation, yet preserving Balzac’s vigorous and characteristic 
style. It is not only the best translation of Balzac which we have, — which would 
not be high praise, since English versions of his novels have hitherto been few and 
fragmentary, — but one of the most excellent translations of any French author 
which we have met. The publishers have laid the American readers under 
obligation both by undertaking the enterprise of presenting Balzac in an English 
dress, and by their selection of a translator ; and it is most desirable that they 
should complete the work so well begun by putting within the reach of English- 
speaking readers the remainder of that marvellous body of fiction, The Comidie 
Humaine ." — The Church Review. 

“ ‘ Cousin Pons’ is the latest translation in the Balzac series now being issued 
by Roberts Brothers, Boston. It is a strong story of friendship and of greed. To 
all intents and purposes the narrative indicates a complete and perfect triumph of 
vice over virtue ; but vice is painted in such hideous colors, and virtue is shown in 
such effulgent beauty, as to make the moral well-nigh awe-inspiring. Balzac does 
not stay the natural course of events. He permits each character to work out its 
own results, and then makes the impression desired by comparative methods. In 
this, as in all his works, the wonderful writer manifests a familiarity with the 
ethics of life which has gained for him the eternal remembrance and gratitude 
of all readers ; and it is fair to presume that the Balzac now being translated and 
published by the Roberts Brothers will revive his name and bring again to his 
feet the world of English-speaking people.” — Springfield Republican. 

“ The last translation from Balzac brought out by Roberts Brothers in their 
new and beautiful edition is one of the famous Frenchman’s most original stories. 
It is, in fact, one of the most extraordinary and original novels ever written, and 
only the mind of a genius could have conceived such a peculiar plot. The heroine 
of the novel — for whom the principal character sacrifices his comfort, his pleasure, 
and indeed his life ; for whom many other characters in the book sacrifice their 
honor ; and around whom all the excitement and interest centres — is, strangely 
enough, not a woman ; and_ yet this heroine calls_ forth the most ardent and 
passionate devotion a man is capable of, and her influence is elevating and not 
degrading. The manner in which a mania of any kind can absorb a man, body 
and soul, is wonderfully brought out in ‘Cousin Pons;’ for the heroine of the 
book is a collection of curios. 

‘‘Those who have formed a hasty judgment of Balzac from reading the ‘ Duchesse 
de Langeais’ would do well to read ‘Cousin Pons.* Balzac sees and depicts 
virtue as perfectly as vice, and it is his faculty of describing beauty as well as 
ugliness which has made him famous. The delicacy of perception which enabled 
him to perceive and describe every shade of feeling in ‘ Cousin Pons ’ and to 
appreciate the nobility of Schmucke’s character is the chief characteristic of 
genius. The reader must read all the ‘ Scenes from Parisian Life ’ to have any 
full conception of Balzac’s greatness. His breadth of vision, his dramatic power, 
his searching analysis of the most transient emotions, and his quick perceptions of 
beauty, are all evident in ‘Cousin Pons.’ It is an interesting, exciting novel, a 
perfect piece of literary execution, and a story which is, if sad, neither coarse nor 
immoral.” — Boston Transcript. ^ 

One handsome i2mo volume, uniform with “ Pere Goriot,” 
“ Duchesse de Langeais,” “ Cesar Birotteau,” “ Eugenie Grandet.” 
Bound in half morocco, French style. Price, $1.50. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 


BALZAC IN ENGLISH 


THE ALKAHEST; 

Or, The House of Claes. 

\ 

, ■ 

Among the novels of Honors de Balzac “ La Recherche de I’Absolu ’’ has 
always counted one of the masterpieces. The terrible dominion of a fixed idea 
was never shown with more tremendous force than is depicted in the absorption of 
all the powers, the mind, and body of Balthazar Claes by the desire to discover 
the Absolute, the “ Alkahest.” The lovely old mansion at Dual, its sumptuous 
furniture, its priceless pictures, its rare bric-i-brac, the pyramid of costly tulips 
that glowed in the garden, are painted with a touch rich and vivid, which shows 
Balzac at his best. This great novelist was always minute and exhaustive in his 
descriptions; but in this story the material in which he W’orked was of a sort to 
arouse his enthusiasm, and he evidently revels in the attractive setting which its 
events demand. The tale itself is penetrating and powerful. — Boston Courier. 

The “ Alkahest ” is a strong story, and all through it is to be felt that sub- 
current of vitalizing energy which in so many of Balzac’s books seems to prc^el 
the principal characters as in a special atmosphere, hurrying them with a kind of 
fiery yet restrained impatience toward the doom assigned them. . . . The scien- 
tific and mystical features of the story are cleverly-handled. Balzac made deep 
inquests before writing his philosophical studies, as he called them, and he was 
always rather ahead than abreast of the thoughts of his time. The central prob- 
lem dealt with here is, of course, as complete a mystery to-day as when the 
“ Recherche de I’Absolu ” was written. . . . Miss Wormeley has made a charao 
teristically excellent translation of a book which presents many unusual difficulties 
and abstruse points. It is rarely possible to assert with any truth that an English 
version of a French book may be read by the public with nearly as much profit 
and apprehension as the original ; but it is the simple fact in this instance, and it 
is certainly remarkable enough to deserve emphasis. — New York Tribune. 

He who would know the art of novel- writing may go to Balzac and find an art 
that is natural, simple, and beautiful in its exercise, and is directed to both thought 
and feeling in behalf of humanity, and that realizes something good and enduring. 
He may look without much trouble at “ The Alkahest ; or. The House of Claes,” 
one of the most illustrative of the author’s method and aim, and excelling in 
philosophical analysis and in philosophical value. 

In this work Balzac has opposed the heart and intellect in a contest amid the 
conditions of social life, and sought to reveal their comparative nature and influ- 
ence, siding, although a remarkable example himself of intellectual development 
and force, m favor of the heart, — that Flemish heart which is ideal of all that is 
powerful for good and happiness in domestic life, and determines Flemish charac- 
ter so strongly that the qualities of that character impress themselves fixedly in 
Flemish painting and architecture. — Sunday Globe, Boston, 

One more scene in Balzac’s wonderful “ Comedy of Human Life.” It is ” The 
Alkahest; or. The House of Claesj” the greatest of the “philosophical studies.” 
It tells of the mad, persistent, vain endeavors of Balthazar, a scientist, to dis- 
cover the Absolute. Through years he squanders his estate in fruitless experi- 
ments. It is a drama that slowly chills the blood. Then comes the finale. 
“ Suddenly the dying man raised himself by his wrists, and cast on his frightened 
children a look which struck like lightning ; the hairs that fringed the bald head 
stirred, the wrinkles quivered, the features were illumined with spiritual fires, a 
breath passed across that face and rendered it sublime. He raised a hand 
clenched in fury, and uttered with a piercing cry the famous word of Archimedes, 

* Eureka 1’ — I have found.” It is the way Balthazar found the Absolute. — 
Philadelphia Press. 


One handsome i imo volume^ uniform with “ Pire Goriotf “ The 
Duchesse de Langeais^* “ Char Birotteauf “ Eughiie Grandetf 
“ Cousin Ponsf “ The Country Doctor f and “ The Two Brothers^ 
Bound in half morocco^ French style. Price, $i>So. 

EGBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers ^ BOSTON* 


From The Art Interchange, a Household Jour- 
nal ^ of February 13, 1886. 

THE DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS. 

WITH 

An Episode under the Terror, The Illustrious 
Gaudissart, a Passion in the Desert, and 
A Hidden Masterpiece. 

By HONORS DE BALZAC. 

Since the days when Thackeray and Dickens were issuing in numbers 
those novels which have delighted so many readers, or George Eliot’s pub- 
lishers were able to announce a new novel from her pen, there has been no 
series of novels given to the public so notable and so well worthy of wide 
attention on the part of adult readers as this translation of Balzac from the 
press of Roberts Brothers. If it be objected, as it perhaps will be, that there 
is a flavor of immorality in Balzac, and that his works are not well adapted 
to general reading, it can be shown, we think, at least so far as the charge 
of immorality is concerned, that the objection is a superficial one ; and that 
while there is much in the times and society which form the ground-work 
of Balzac’s marvellous stories that is improper and fortunately counter to 
our civilization, still, Balzac’s tone concerning these very things is a healthy 
one, and his belief in purity and goodness, his faith in the possibilities of 
humanity, is too clear to admit of a question. He gives us wonderful pic- 
tures of the world he lived in. It was not altogether a good world. As it 
was he portrays it. Its virtues he praises and its vices he condemns, not 
by a page of mere moralizing, but by events and action, which, swaying the 
ethics of society with apparent uncertainty hither and thither, yet have an 
upward tread, even as they do in our world of to-day. “ The Duchesse de 
Langeais” is the novel' of this volume. It is from the Scenes de la Vie 
Parisienne of the Com6die Humaine. The temptation and struggle of the 
Duchess is one which could hardly, in our day, present itself to a pure- 
minded woman. In that day and time it could, and did; in spite of her 
wild abandonment to the lover who spumed her, the reader feels that 
Madams de Langeais was a noble-hearted woman, purer than those wh» 


counselled her a concealed enjoyment of her passion, nobler and bet;ter than 
the society which made her what she was. With great power and pathos is 
her story told. It is a very powerful scene when her lover meets her in the 
convent, and very dramatic is her tortured cry to the Mother Superior: 
“ This man is my lover ! ” How strong and pitiful the end, and the sad 
commitment to the waves of what was a woman and now is nothing ! The 
volume also contains four short stories. “ An Episode under the Teiror,” 
from Scenes de la Vie Politique, is a story already familiar from previous 
translation, and which has drifted around in English as much perhaps as 
any of Balzac’s shorter stories. “ The Illustrious Gaudissart ” is from 
Scenes de la Vie de Province, an admirable example of Balzac’s humor. 
Gaudissart is a commercial traveller, — a drummer, in familiar parlance. He 
might be a drummer of to-day. If he were, he could easily find employ* 
ment with a high-class house. The shrewdness and impudence of the class 
has not varied much since Balzac’s time. Gaudissart adds to his line a 
children’s magazine and the agency of a Life Insurance Company. He is 
advised by the humorist of a provincial town to try his powers of persua- 
sion on a man who turns out to be a harmless, but decided lunatic. The 
scene between the two is humorous in the extreme. When Gaudissart calls 
' the insuring one’s life for a large sum “ the discounting of future genius,” 
he adds a persuasive phrase to the repertoire of the life-insurance agent. 
“A Passion in the Desert” is from Scenes de la Vie Militaire, and is as 
singular a tale as might be imagined from the affection of a man and a 
tiger. The last of the four is “ The Hidden Masterpiece,” from Etudes 
Philosophiques. Here, to the readers of this edition, Balzac is seen in a 
new vein. Here is something of the strange, weird touch of Hawthorne, 
something of unreality, and the lingering vision of a possible moral. The 
translation could hardly be in better hands. The English is delightfully 
clear and nervous. Whoever reads these books will know Balzac very well, 
and it is safe to assume that they will like him very much. 


One handsome \ 2 mo volume^ uniform with Goriot 

^ / and “ Cisar BirotteauP Bound in half morocco^ French 
' Style. Price $ 1 . 50 . 

* 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

Boston. 


LEMr '08 





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